The Trouble with Bracegirdles
by seafarer
Summary: Lobelia was a Bracegirdle before marrying Otho Sackville-Baggins. After the quest Frodo Baggins returned home a completely different hobbit than when he left. How would he handle a new set of Bracegirdles and their tricks? A bit AU, but canon. Rated T for mature themes and for violence in a hobbit's mind.
1. Prologue: The Letter

A/N: This is a story exploring a few ideas that may have happened to Frodo after the Travellers returned from the Quest. The rating is mainly for violence as I tend to get a bit graphic in dreams and memories of the Quest. All reviews and criticisms are appreciated.

This story was birthed from Larner with her story, Between Green Door and Gold Ring.

All rights to Lord of the Rings belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I don't own the characters, I just enjoy wondering about them.

**Prologue: The Letter**

17 Thrimidge, 1420

"Here's the mail, Mr Frodo," announced Sam Gamgee, as he flourished a handful of letters, passing them through the open study window to Frodo Baggins.

Frodo chuckled at his friend's antics as he thumbed through the pile of letters. "Are you aware that several of these are addressed to you?" he queried.

"Why don't that surprise me," the gardener muttered. He eyed the stack in Frodo's hand with some curiosity. "Anythin' interstin'?"

"Mmm, probably a few," Frodo decided as he handed back every letter but two through the window.

"Well...that's a sight more than I were expectin'," Sam mumbled in surprise. Frodo chuckled at the flustered look and Sam glanced over at the mail in his master's hand. A frown crossed his face. "It don't seem right somehow as I should get more mail'n you," he said.

"Well, I, for one, am glad to see it," Frodo smiled, breaking the seal on his first letter.

"Why? There's no reason as any gentlehobbit'd be writin' to me," Sam said.

Frodo looked slightly indignant. "No reason?" he huffed. "What about your forestry work, and the holes you've restored? What about the hobbits who have roofs over their heads because of your hard work? The people of the Shire have _every _reason to be grateful to you, Sam Gamgee, and, really, there 'is no reason' that you would think otherwise."

Sam frowned at his own words being thrown back at him and muttered, "Oh, I can think of a few." He glanced at Frodo's two letters. "And if'n that's the case then where's all _your _mail, Mr Deputy-Mayor? Shire-folk ought to be at least twice as grateful to you, fundin' all th' restoration, sortin' th' mess out, and seein' as them Ruffians were stopped. Not to mention your other _activities_."

Frodo frowned at him. "May they never know of my 'other activities'," he muttered under his breath, but then added in a slightly louder tone, "I'm sure that a large pile is gathering in Michel Delving. After all, I have been there for the last two weeks for some odd reason." He gave Sam a meaningful smile and Sam blushed. The gardener had finally married his long-time sweetheart exactly seventeen days ago and right after the wedding Frodo had left for Michel Delving to give the new couple some privacy. He had actually arrived back at Bag End only three hours ago.

"Aye, that's true," the gardener agreed, "And Rosie and I are right grateful for it. But we're glad as you're home, too. Seems as it's been - quieter without you here."

"Quieter?" Frodo snorted. "How could it be more quiet? I'm the quietest one in this hole!"

"Aye, but it was," Sam insisted. "Can't put my finger on it, it just...was."

Frodo shrugged at this in bemusement and muttered, "And with a new bride, too," Then he began to examine the letter from Michel Delving. Blushing again, Sam tucked his own mail into a jacket pocket and returned to the hedge he had been trimming, but he kept a furtive eye on his master.

Frodo placed the Michel Delving letter on his desk while mumbling something about answering it soon, flipped over the other envelope, and then his face drained of colour.

"Mr Frodo?" Sam queried, worried at the sudden silence. Wordlessly, Frodo held up the letter. A black-sealed letter. Sam's face filled with horror and he scrambled through the open window to his friend's side.

"It's not..." Sam murmured.

"No...no, of course not," Frodo swallowed. "Elves don't know our customs. They couldn't possibly know that a black seal means-" He stopped, unwilling to go on.

"B'sides," Sam added, his own voice unnaturally high-pitched, "I'd think as they'd send for you if'n he were that bad off."

The two hobbits stared at the ominous little symbol of death. With trembling hands Frodo broke the seal and opened the letter. He immediately turned to the signature and broke into a smile of sheer relief. "It's not Bilbo," he reassured Sam. He then began to peruse the letter and Sam watched as the brief look of joy vanished from his face. He began absent-mindedly fingering the white jewel that Queen Arwen had given him. Pain and sorrow etched themselves across the hobbit's face and he suddenly looked far, far older than his fifty-some years. Sam found that he was holding his breath and forced himself to exhale.

Finally Frodo's arm dropped and he stared unseeing across the study. Sam could stand the tension no longer.

"Mr Frodo?"

Without looking at Sam Frodo handed him the missive and said woodenly, "It's Lobelia."

-o-o-o-

translation:

Thrimidge - May


	2. 1 The Burial

**1. The Burial**

20 Thrimidge, 1420

Hardbottle

She knew him the moment he first arrived. Apart from the height, the unusually dark hair, and those startlingly blue eyes that Aunt Lobelia had always complained about he had a quiet air of authority and dignity which seemed to set him apart from every other hobbit there. She watched as he and his companion threaded their way through the masses of Bracegirdles, Hardbottles, Toesys, Hornblowers, and countless other relations and claimed a pair of empty chairs along the far wall. How everyone glared at him with that special Bracegirdle glare reserved especially for Frodo Baggins, who'd denied Lobelia's claim to Bag End for so long. His companion glared angrily back at them as if daring anyone to make them move, but Frodo never even appeared to notice, instead staring at the plain oak box not five feet to his left.

Belle felt her hazel eyes welling with tears at the thought of that box and impatiently brushed them away. She'd already cried for three days, today she wanted to have some self-control. _At least until after the burial, _she thought.

She brushed away more tears and then resumed her study of the Master of Bag End. The hobbit's face was almost white, making his strange eyes even more obvious. Even his lips were pale and she noticed that he appeared to be speaking to the coffin. With a wry smile he turned to his companion and whispered something. His friend shot him a look of concern, but he deflected the look with a word and a careless wave of his hand. The friend resumed his overprotective glaring, but now he gently rested his hand on Frodo's shoulder and every so often looked at him in concern when he thought Frodo wouldn't see it. Belle found herself wondering about the other fellow. He looked like a normal enough hobbit -honey brown hair, stocky, sun-browned and sturdy- probably a common Harfoot from all indications. There definitely appeared to be a close bond between the pair though. _Could this be the magnificent Meriadoc whom everyone talks about? _she wondered.

Of course, from what everyone said Meriadoc was the son of the Master of Buckland and should be more used to wealth and opulence than this nervous hobbit seemed to be. He almost looked as if he was afraid to put his full weight on either the chair or the carpet. On the other hand, who knew what things were truly like on the wrong side of the Brandywine. Maybe they weren't really as wealthy as everyone thought.

A hand rubbing her back brought her out of her musings and she looked up to see her brother Largo gazing down at her, his brown eyes filled with compassion and his gingery curls in a terrible disarray. He must have been pulling at his hair again. Belle smiled in spite of herself.

"How are you holding up?" Largo whispered.

She gave him a crooked smile and said, "Well enough."

"What were you looking at?" He followed her gaze across the room and his eyes narrowed at the sight of the pair. "So," he muttered, "he _did _have the audacity to show up."

"Well, you did invite him," she whispered. Largo snorted softly.

"Who's that with him?" Belle asked. "That's not the Meriadoc that everyone talks about, is it?"

"Hardly," her brother answered. "That's just his servant."

Belle raised her eyebrows in surprise. "He dresses rather well for a servant," she defended herself, but she did see the roughness and commonness beneath that fine waistcoat now that Largo had mentioned it.

"So Baggins brought his servant," Largo mused aloud. "I think that I'll go have a talk with him. Excuse me, my dear."

Belle watched as Largo made his way over to the outsiders, and then a bothersome cousin came over to visit and she didn't see anything more of Mr Baggins for what seemed like hours except for a very brief time when he had taken her left hand with his own and told her that he was "truly sorry about Lobelia's death." She just knew that he was laughing at her behind that white mask that his face had become and had glared at him through her tears. His hand had been icy cold to the touch.

Now he stood before Aunt Lobelia's grave. As head of the Baggins family he was to be one of the first to throw a handful of dirt onto the coffin. Through her tears Belle saw that Frodo's servant was standing close behind him, as if to catch him if he should fall. Frodo peered down at the coffin and then, in the softest of whispers she thought that she heard him say, "I should have come home sooner. I'm sorry, Lobelia." He dropped in a wreath of purple and white flowers and then a handful of earth and quickly stepped back. Belle sobbed. A few others stepped forward and offered their wreaths and dirt. Then Largo took Belle's hand and they took their places at the grave. Largo threw in his lily wreath and handful of earth and quickly turned away. Belle, however, went more slowly. She let her own lily wreath fall, but gripped her dirt tightly, remembering. Remembering...

_ Twenty-three year old Belle came bouncing into the roomy kitchen of Sackville Place, chestnut curls flying, hazel eyes dancing with merriment, and found her dearest Aunt Lobelia seated at the kitchen table, peeling potatoes for supper and wishing that she had a maid for such tasks. She didn't hear her niece and Belle surprised her with a hug, laughing as she slipped the paring knife out of her startled aunt's hand and sat down to peel the potatoes instead. Aunt Lobelia watched her for a moment and then smiled and asked if she had enjoyed her stroll through Hobbiton._

_ "Oh, yes, Aunty," she answered. "I think that I saw Mad Baggins's lad. You said that he was uncommonly tall and thin, didn't you?" _

_ Aunt Lobelia stiffened "That brat? Was he bothering you?" She looked Belle over anxiously._

_ "Oh no, he was at market with a younger lad." The lass giggled, "Doesn't he have the queerest eyes? So blue."_

_ Her aunt sniffed disdainfully. "That comes from his conniving Brandybuck mother. No self-respecting Baggins would have eyes that outlandish colour."_

_ "Perhaps not," Belle agreed. Then with a sly smile she added, "But he is handsome, isn't he? He can't be older than twenty-nine."_

_ Aunt Lobelia lifted her chin defiantly. "He isn't even twenty-five yet," she said coldly._

_ Belle was startled by this revelation, but went on as if she hadn't heard a word. "And he was so polite too. The lad with him couldn't have been but half his age, but he was still so kind to him." Belle had four brothers and considered good manners something to be valued._

_ "His personal servant, the Gamgee brat, I'm sure."_

_ "He's mannerly even to his servant?"_

_ Aunt Lobelia shook her head. "Queerest lad I've ever had the misfortune to meet."_

_ "And be related to," Belle added. "Would you introduce me?"_

_ Her aunt's gaze was almost enough to freeze the lass. "You want to meet that- that_ boy_?" she demanded, her voice shaking a little with anger._

_ "Now, now, Aunt Lobelia," Belle said hastily, "he is a lad, after all, and just my age too. He deserves more respect than that. Besides," she added defiantly as her aunt spluttered, "I like him. I want to meet him."_

_ Aunt Lobelia gaped. "Belle Bracegirdle!" she finally shrieked, "Don't you dare tell me that you've been bewitched by the likes of that- that Brandybuck!"_

_ "Oh, no, no, no, Aunt, not a Brandybuck at all," she gazed at her aunt in a calculating manner for a moment and then said, "I've set my cap for the future Mr Baggins of Bag End, Underhill."_

_ The older hobbitess stared at the younger one._

_ "Just as you tried to do with Mad Baggins sixty-some years ago," the lass added._

_ Slowly understanding crept across Aunt Lobelia's face. "You would marry him for position," she stated flatly._

_ "Well, he _is _the most eligible lad in the Shire. And the wealthiest. Do you know how jealous every lass in the Shire would be?" _

_ Aunt Lobelia eyed Belle sharply. "And what if Otho should succeed the madhobbit instead?"_

_ Belle shrugged. "From all you've said Frodo Baggins has enough wealth of his own to easily support a wife -even without the old coot's favour. I'd get by." Trying a different tack she gently took her aunt's hand. With a smile that was half wistful, half hopeful she said, "I'd finally be making something of myself, Aunty. Just like you."_

_ The two hobbitesses gazed at each other for a long time. Then a slow, rather devious smile spread itself across the older hobbitess's face. Taking Belle's other hand she said, "Well, my dear,_ if _you can manage to land your fish I shall dance at your wedding and send _dear _Frodo a present of a dozen silver spoons!" She laughed with pleasure at the thought and Belle joined in, their laughter ringing through Sackville Place and out into the street._

"Belle!"

Belle Bracegirdle came out of her reverie to find her brother pulling gently at her arm. "Come on, Belle," he said. "It's someone else's turn. Let it go."

Belle squared her shoulders and dropped in her dirt, now a tightly packed ball. As it hit the coffin with a thump she murmured, "I'll do you proud yet, Aunty. Will you still send the spoons?"

-fjfjfjfjfjf-

During the meal that followed no-one seemed to be very interested in talking to Belle. Instead, the relations who lived nearby seemed more interested in catching up with more distant relatives from Willowbottom, Hobbiton, Scary, and beyond. So she had to content herself with observing the others. Not that she minded (much). She was always watching for interesting things that other hobbits did. So she watched as Uncle Nils fell asleep in his fourth dish of mashed potatoes. She saw Olin Hardbottle coax some of the younger cousins out for a pipe or two. She chuckled at the antics of Alda Toesy's faunt and noted that Cousin Hilda's lads seemed to be the only ones willing to talk with Frodo Baggins. Mostly though, she watched Frodo. He ate very little and seemed content with being ignored, instead scribbling on a scrap of paper when he wasn't staring vacantly ahead. Once they made eye contact as he looked up. Belle smiled and nodded pleasantly and he did just the same, but then ducked again as if he was forbidden to look at her and scribbled something else. This irked her. She'd waited for that moment for over twenty years and now a piece of paper stood between them?

_What are you writing, Frodo Baggins?_

When his head came back up again she tried to catch his eyes, but a flash of pain crossed his face and for a brief instant he looked..._what is that? Ill? Hurt? Sad? _Whatever it was, his head went back down before she could identify it. He spoke with his servant briefly and then they both got up and began making their way towards Belle. Or rather, she realised, to the door which was just to her right. She nudged Largo and her brother quickly got up and intercepted them just as they passed Belle's table.

"Leaving us so soon, Mr Baggins?" he asked.

"I'm afraid so," Frodo answered with an apologetic smile. "We thought that we might go settle ourselves at the inn."

Largo appeared surprised at this news. "You're not staying for the reading of the will?"

A look of pain crossed Frodo's face, but he answered, "I doubt that will be necessary. Lobelia and I never got along with each other."

"Ah," Largo responded. "Well, you may want to stay, all the same."

Frodo eyed him sharply, and Belle was surprised at the keenness of that look, but then he nodded in acquiescence. "Very well," he said, "but do I have time to step outside for some air?"

"For a few minutes," agreed Largo.

"Thank you," Frodo said quietly. As he and his servant slipped silently out of the door Belle saw something small and white fall to the floor and went to investigate. She wasn't at all surprised to find that it was a well folded piece of paper covered in a flowing script, but as she picked it up she was surprised to hear the voices of two hobbits talking in the passage.

"-need an hour or two at the least, an' today of all days especially, beggin' your pardon, Mr Frodo."

"I'll be fine, Sam. I just -couldn't breathe. It's too crowded in there."

A snort. "Well, if'n _that's _how you're puttin' it. Ouch!"

"Here, let me do that." A pause. "It wasn't actually today. It will be Trewsday." A deep sigh, and then softly, "Forty years ago...on Trewsday."

"I'm sorry, Mr Frodo."

"Do you think that they know what happened?"

"I'm sure I don't know, sir. I don't know how they would."

Silence.

"D'you think he'd notice if'n we just left?"

A mirthless chuckle. "He's probably watching for us to make sure that we don't. Ah, well. Ready?"

"Right behind you, Mr Frodo."

The door clicked shut on the pair of voices and Belle made her way back to her spot, raising one eyebrow at her brother who, just as Frodo had predicted, was standing at the window, and presumably keeping an eye on Mr Baggins. Once she regained her seat she unfolded the page and smoothed out the wrinkles, and then began to read.

_Elen síla lúmenn omentielmo_

_Do you remember that day? It was my first definite memory of you. I was six years old and Bilbo taught me those words over tea when I begged him to teach me some Elvish. While he and my parents visited I went outside, eager to say them to someone. When you happened along I thought that I was the luckiest lad in the Shire. I was shocked when you boxed my ears and dragged me inside to be punished for my impudence. Though only a faunt I vowed that day that I would never say those words to you again._

_Elen síla lúmenn omentielmo_

_As a youngster I feared you and hid when I heard you coming. I remembered your wrath the day that I fought Lotho. Even from inside my room I could hear you screaming that I should be beaten, and I cowered in Mother's arms._

_Elen síla lúmenn omentielmo_

_At fifteen I learned why we moved to Woodhall, and I hated you for it._

_Elen síla lúmenn omentielmo_

_In my tweens I avoided you at all costs. You were the thief, the talebearer, the liar who had me constantly defending my parents. Your son was a bully who enjoyed trying to browbeat both my friends and myself. How often I would be hiding in a tree as you walked under it, you will never know. Before Bilbo's party I thought that the look on your face when he vanished was going to be one of the most amusing sights that I had ever seen. It wasn't that amusing at all._

_Elen síla lúmenn omentielmo_

_Until I turned fifty you were the bane of my existence. I disliked you the day that I sold you Bag End. I loathed you the day that I moved. On the first morning out I wished my tree-root pillow upon you._

_Elen síla lúmenn omentielmo_

_How much I regret that wish. I learned what the true bane of my existence was out there. I blessed you for giving me a little bit of a head for heights. I longed to see your face again, for that would have meant that I was home. When I couldn't remember your face in the tower, I wept._

_Elen síla lúmenn omentielmo_

_I was shocked to hear of your arrest, but more so when I heard why. I mourn that I was too late to save Lotho, and I dreaded bringing you the news. When I saw you in the cell I almost wept -for joy that you were alive, for pain at what you suffered. I was proud of that independent, fiery spirit as you hobbled out. When you gave me back Bag End my pleasure was tempered with sorrow at your loss. I mourned to learn of your death._

_Elen síla lúmenn omentielmo_

_Perhaps if you were not as you were I'd have stayed in the Shire. Perhaps Otho would have been Bilbo's heir, or Lotho. Who can fathom the ways of Illuvatar? Perhaps the world would have fallen. Perhaps the difference between what is and what could have been lies not with the actions of a fellowship, but rather in what one hobbitess was like. I vowed once never to say this to you again, but now, too late, I break my vow._

_Elen síla lúmenn omentielmo, Lobelia. Namárië, mellon nin. May you pass through_

The writing stopped abruptly, as if the writer had been interrupted, and Belle jerked the letter down with an angry snap, her ears burning with rage. Liar? Thief? Bane of his existence!? How dare he say such foul things about her beloved aunt?

"Largo!"

Her brother saw the fire smouldering in her hazel eyes and hurried over. Leaning over her chair he asked, "What is it?" Wordlessly she handed him the paper and he read. His jaw clenched in anger and his face went scarlet up to the roots of his ginger curls. "The arrogant pig," he spat. "No wonder she hated him."

"What do you suppose that phrase means?"

"Nothing good, I'll warrant. Do you understand any of that last paragraph? 'Perhaps the world would have fallen'?"

"Unintelligible gibberish," she sniffed, "He needed that beating."

"I'll wager he didn't get it."

The two siblings stared at each other. Slowly the first flame of rage cooled from their faces, and finally Largo said quietly, "Do you still wish to do it?"

Belle laughed shortly. "I can't think of anything more fitting," she retorted. "but first we find out what _this _means. Tonight." She jabbed a finger at the offensive gibberish.

"Quite so," agreed her brother, a malevolent gleam in his eyes.

"Largo!" a new voice bellowed. The pair jumped, and then guiltily turned to see Mungo Bracegirdle frowning at them.

"Yes, Uncle," stammered Largo.

"Don't you think it's time that we read the will and let everyone go home?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Largo answered in a relieved tone, but then added, "Just wait 'til I get Baggins, will you?"

The muscles in Uncle Mungo's neck tightened visibly but he managed to growl out, "Certainly." Largo hurried outside and Uncle Mungo stalked back to his seat. Belle tucked the paper inside her bodice and waited anxiously for Largo's return. She sighed in relief when she saw him coming back with Frodo Baggins in tow.

"Mr Baggins," she called out. Several heads turned to look at her in shock and 'Mr Baggins' himself had a rather surprised look on his face as he approached her.

"Yes, Mistress?" he said.

She waved her hand carelessly in dismissal. "'Mistress' my foot! It's Belle Bracegirdle, thank you sir, at your service." She chuckled, "I'm not even married yet, sir."

Frodo still appeared surprised, but offered her a bow. "Frodo Baggins at yours and your family's," he said, "Forgive me, Miss Bracegirdle. I fear I just assumed-"

"Think nothing of it," she interrupted him. "I just wanted to offer you a place to sit." She patted the seat beside her.

Frodo hesitated. "Thank you, but no. Sam and I will just go back to our own seats."

"You can't," Belle said bluntly. "My cousin Lavender and her husband took your place just after you left."

Frodo looked across the room and Belle held her breath, hoping that Lavender was still there. Apparently she was, for he eyed the single seat on the bench beside her and then held a whispered conversation -argument might have been the better word- with his servant as Largo, who was Aunt Lobelia's barrister, began the reading of the will. It took a bit, but in the end Frodo sat down next to her and the servant disappeared.

The reading of the will was long and tedious as Aunt Lobelia had a last word and a gift for almost everyone in the family. Many of the hobbits grew restless, but not Frodo. Only twice did she see him fidget, and both times were near the beginning. The first time he'd slipped his hand quietly into his jacket pocket and a look of alarm had washed over his face. He'd quietly searched his pockets, but when he didn't find what he was looking for he'd begun fingering a magnificent white jewel which hung on a silver chain around his neck and sat there with his eyes fixed on Largo. He hadn't even moved when his servant returned and had stationed himself behind his master, laying a hand on his shoulder in a most familiar manner.

The other time was when Aunt Lobelia bequeathed her two second-best dresses and a collection of silver spoons to Belle. Frodo had started and turned to see Belle smiling pleasantly at him. He'd clenched the white gem in his fist and hastily turned his attention back to Largo. That impudent servant had looked at her too, and had the audacity to give her a rather vicious glare. She could barely keep from slapping the fellow, but she managed to restrain herself and had returned her own attention to Largo, who really was in fine form.

Two hours later they were finally nearing the end. Largo had done splendidly up to this point. _Now, just finish strong,_ she thought encouragingly.

"'To Ela Hornblower I leave my best silver tea service, my claret-feathered hat, and the blue and white quilt that you so admired.'

'Finally, to Frodo Baggins I leave all of my money and property, and all that remains of Lotho's—'"

"What?!"

A general babble of voices drowned out Largo's as every hobbit in the room leaped to his feet with an exclamation of anger or shock. Every hobbit but three, that is. Belle had known what was coming and had been watching Frodo. When his name had been said he and his servant had both gone as still as stones, and as the babble erupted she watched his eyes widen in shock.

"Lobelia?" he gasped.

She smiled archly at his astonishment, and then he got up and began making his way towards Largo, his servant right behind him with a worried expression on his round face. Belle grinned. It was one of the most exciting things that she'd ever seen (excluding almost anything having to do with the ruffians, but she didn't count that). Folks were pushing and shouting, eyes were blazing and tempers flaring, Frodo (and the servant) were pushed towards the front of the crowd, and Largo was having a regular shouting match with Uncle Mungo. Finally Frodo reached the front, and he was shouting too.

"Mr Bracegirdle! Mr Bracegirdle!" she heard him yell.

"Go sit down, Mr Baggins!" Largo bellowed.

"Baggins!" roared Uncle Mungo, turning towards the newcomer. Belle could see the fury in his eyes from where she stood.

"But I don't want it! I don't need it!" Frodo appeared almost frantic.

"You haven't heard everything! Go sit down! Uncle Mungo, please-"

Uncle Mungo was yelling something up into Mr Baggins's face, but she couldn't hear what it was and then that meddlesome servant shoved himself between the pair and roared into Uncle Mungo's face, "Who are you t' say what my master deserves?!"

She couldn't hear what Frodo said -although she certainly could hear the wretched servant's protests- but it was enough to make that servant release Uncle Mungo's weskit. The creature followed Frodo back to the bench (forcing their way back through the crowd) and -of all the audacity- sat down beside him.

"It ain't right," he said with some heat. "Them sayin' such things about you an' all. It oughtn't to be allowed, and 'specially after everything you've done."

"It's fine, Sam," Frodo said hastily. He looked rather pale and tired, as if the tussle had worn him out. "It's only natural, I suppose." He shook his head. "Although I can't imagine what Lobelia was thinking to leave anything to me -let alone her wealth?"

"Well, Mr Bilbo did leave her them spoons."

Frodo quirked a smile at the thought. "Yes, but that was to make a point."

"True." The servant looked thoughtful. The pair was silent for a moment and then the servant mumbled, "Don't they look like orcs, now. All pushin' and scrabblin' like. It's enough t' make a body sick."

"Don't even think of it," Frodo murmured breathlessly. Both hobbits fell silent again watching as the melee continued, both lost in thought. Frodo resumed his fingering of the white stone. After a few minutes the servant began chuckling to himself.

"What?" asked Frodo, coming out of his reverie.

"Oh, I were just a-thinkin' that even if'n you stood up an' shouted, 'The Corsairs of Umbar are comin',' they wouldn't notice right now."

She and Frodo both stared at him, but to her confusion Frodo began to smirk. "You could probably sing full Quenya verse and they wouldn't notice," he grinned.

"What if'n ol' Strider hisself were to come in, in full court dress," added the servant with a cheeky grin of his own, "D'you think they'd even see him?"

"Sam, I doubt that they'd notice if an oliphaunt strode past the window at this point!" laughed Frodo.

"I've got it! I know what'd do it," the servant cried eagerly.

"What?" Frodo demanded, still chuckling.

"Sing the one about the man in the moon."

The two hobbits stared silently at each other for a moment, and then Frodo burst out laughing, quickly joined by his jester. The sound was loud and clear and free, and Belle found herself wiping away tears at the sounds of joy that she hadn't heard for many weeks in the hole. Some of the other hobbits turned around and glared at them, but the merry pair didn't seem to notice. They were still chortling as Belle slipped out the door and hurried to her bedroom. She'd been given a flute once, and it just might serve the purpose...

Things were still in an uproar when she re-entered the great dining hall. Folks around the edges of the group had begun to settle down, but in the centre the fray was even worse than before. _It'll take you an hour at least to calm everything down, Largo,_ she thought.

She boldly mounted the table, drew out the flute, and blew the loudest, shrillest, longest note that she could muster. At her feet she saw her intended clap his hands over his ears with a look of pain, but she paid him no mind. She had to blow the note twice more before she finally had the attention of everyone. She lowered the flute with a little flourish and called out, "Would you all please sit down? Largo is not finished, and we won't be able to have any tea until he's done."

She stayed up there until the knot of hobbits began to disperse and only then did she climb down. Largo caught her eye and mouthed 'thank you.' She smiled back and then sat down next to Frodo.

He turned to her with a half-smile and said, "Well done, Miss Bracegirdle. That was well thought of."

She turned to smile at him, but whatever she had intended to say vanished completely from her mind at the sight of that pale face. He suddenly looked very old and...and there was that expression again. It wasn't pain or sorrow or tiredness, it was all of those, plus something else; something unidentifiable. He looked away.

"Thank you," Largo boomed. "Now then," he raised the last page of the will again and read in a loud, clear voice,

"'Finally, to Frodo Baggins I leave all of my money and property, and all that remains of Lotho's wealth as well. All money and profits are to be used for the restoration of homes and property to those hobbits which were made homeless during the Time of Troubles.'" (By this point silent tears were flowing unchecked down Frodo's pale cheeks. Belle also noticed that his servant was wincing as if in pain.) "'Bless you, lad, and forgive an old hobbitess for never seeing past your blood to you.'

'Being in my sound mind I, Lobelia Bracegirdle Sackville-Baggins, do solemnly adjure that this is my right and correct will and final wishes.'"

"The document is signed by Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. It was witnessed by Nordo Chubb, Largo Bracegirdle, Mungo Bracegirdle, Alister Hardbottle, Benlo Toesy, Alda Toesy, and Belle Bracegirdle."

Largo began gathering and straightening all of his papers as the babble of voices broke out again. Disbelief seemed to be the prevalent theme, Belle noticed. She turned towards Frodo with a smug smile on her face. The master of Bag End was still staring at Largo in shock, tears streaming from those blue eyes. Abruptly he stood up.

"Sam," his voice cracked with emotion, "I-I need a few minutes to myself."

Belle was a little surprised at the depth of compassion on the servant's face as he said, "O'course, Mr Frodo. You take all the time y'need. I'll take care of anythin' as comes up. If'n you need anythin' though, I'll be right here."

Frodo smiled weakly through his tears and placed a hand on his servant's shoulder. "I know you will, Sam," he whispered. Then he quickly left the room.

Belle hurried to the kitchen and gave orders for the tea to be set out, and then slipped out the side door, intent on following Frodo. She found him kneeling beneath a large spreading oak, rocking back and forth, one arm wrapped around his body as if hugging himself, his other hand pressed tightly over his mouth as muffled sobs and moans convulsed his body. Astonished by the depth of grief this hobbit showed for the one he'd so insulted earlier she felt her own grief retuning and silently fled to the kitchen. She remained there, fighting her sorrow, until most of the guests had left.

When she finally came out the only remaining guests were the Toesys, who were planning to leave the next morning; Uncle Mungo, who was still pouring over the will; Cousin Hilda and her children -_apparently that Seredic Brandybuck couldn't be bothered to show up_- she noted; and Mr Baggins with his ever-present, over-bearing servant.

She found them all in the second best parlour (after holding the coffin this morning the best parlour would need a proper cleaning before it could be used again) quietly visiting. The fire blazed merrily on the hearth casting a warm red glow over the entire room and making things seem more like the after-hours of a party rather than a burial. Adding to this effect were the youngsters playing quietly in the corner and the mugs of beer or cider that everyone seemed to have.

Just as she entered the room she heard Largo say, "Good. I'll just let the servants know of your decision."

"You're sure it won't be an inconvenience?" queried Frodo from where he stood by the hearth.

Largo clapped a broad hand down on the taller hobbit's thin shoulder. "No trouble at all," he declared, "Truth be told, Belle and I knew that this was coming and we were both hoping that you would see this as an opportunity to cut two fields in one day as it were. Although," he added with a wry chuckle, "I must admit that we weren't expecting you to bring your servant. Still, I think we could find a corner for him to sleep in."

Frodo's features seemed to harden at his words. "I believe that I told you before-"

"Oh, yes, yes," Largo growled. "Fine. I'm sure we can find a corner for _Mister Gamgee _to sleep in."

"Pray be certain that he has a bed," the master of Bag End said stiffly, "Sam has slept on the ground more than his share for one lifetime." The servant laid a hand on his master's shoulder as if to restrain him.

"Of course he'll have a bed," Largo blustered, slightly taken aback, "I'll see to it myself."

The ice never left Frodo's gaze as he said, "Thank you."

Largo turned to go, but then caught sight of his sister lurking in the doorway. "Belle, my dear," he said in a relieved tone, rushing to her side. He muttered in her ear, "Try to warm him up, will you? He's as stiff as an icicle," then said in a louder tone as he escorted her over to the fireplace, "Baggins, I want you to meet my lovely sister."

"We've already met," Frodo smiled politely, bowing. "Miss Bracegirdle, I'm pleased to see you again." With a sudden, mischievous twinkle in his sky-blue eyes he added, "I fear that in all of the excitement earlier I neglected my manners most shamefully. Allow me to introduce Master Samwise Gamgee, my dearest friend."

To Belle's utter confusion that servant stepped forward and bowed, red-faced up to the ears.

"Samwise Gamgee at your service, miss," he mumbled.

Belle curtsied deeply, certain that her ears were as red as his face. "Belle Bracegirdle at yours and your family's," she murmured back.

Largo scowled. "I thought that you were a servant, _Master_ Gamgee." The blushing hobbit snapped erect, his face turning a deeper shade of crimson, but he didn't back down. Belle noticed an angry glint in Frodo's eyes.

Mr Gamgee eyed Largo. "No, sir," he answered sturdily, "I'm not. I'm his gardener. I take care of the garden up at Bag End an' watch out for Mr Frodo as best I can."

"And what sort of _watching out for _might you be in need of, Baggins?" demanded Largo.

Frodo glared and the gardener's jaw set. "Beggin' your pardon, but I don't know as that's any of your business, sir," the gardener said coldly. He laid a hand protectively on _his master's_ shoulder. Belle narrowed her eyes in disdain.

_Clearly a servant no matter how he chooses to look at it._

"Are you going to let him speak for you, Baggins?" Largo challenged.

The insolent gardener turned a third shade of red.

"Why should I say any more?" Frodo returned stiffly. "I was going to tell you the same thing." The master of Bag End stalked over to an empty couch along the far wall and quickly sat down. One of Hilda's tweens, the youngest one, Celandine, ran over and stole the place beside him, and his _servant _took the other side. Indignant both at losing a seat beside Frodo and at having curtsied to a servant, Belle stiffly took an armchair by the fireplace as Largo left to make the necessary arrangements.

Celandine snuggled against Frodo -_brazen little imp_- and said, "Does Merry know you call Sam that?"

Frodo smiled gently -_almost tenderly,_ Belle thought enviously- at her and said, "Oh yes, Merry knows all about Sam, and he agrees with me."

"Hmm," the lass mumbled, "Poor Merry."

Frodo looked at her, startled. "What?"

"Well, Merry was your best friend before, but now it's Sam," she explained. "Doesn't he mind?"

"No, because we don't see it that way," Frodo answered slowly. "The way that I see it, I have three best friends: Merry, Pippin, and Sam. But Sam is especially dear to me, much as Pippin is to Merry, in case you haven't noticed." He chuckled at something.

Celandine nodded as if she was a little exasperated with the two absent hobbits. "Oh, I've noticed," she grimaced. Then she glanced up at Frodo. "Why?"

"Probably because you can't help but see it."

"I did not mean that and you know it, Frodo Baggins."

"Then what did you mean?"

"I mean, why is Sam so dear to you?"

_An excellent question,_ Belle thought.

Frodo glanced down at her. "You sound like Pippin," he teased. Belle thought that it sounded like he was trying to change the subject.

"I most certainly do _not _sound like that Took." Celandine retorted indignantly.

"Oh, no?" Frodo sounded amused "With all these questions I'm starting to think that I'm talking to him."

The tween grinned at him. "Maybe we're turning him into a sensible Bucklander, then," she laughed, "but you're not getting away that easily, cousin. Why is Sam so dear to you?"

"Celli-"

"Frodo," she interrupted, with a reproachful look.

He fell silent, fingering that white jewel again. Finally he said slowly, "Let's just say that I learned the true measure and worth of Sam Gamgee on our journey." With a gentle smile at the gardener he added softly, "And it was greater than the value of the whole of Middle-Earth." The little gardener blushed again and great tears were shining in his brown eyes as his master looked down at his jewel for a few moments and then clutched it tightly in his right hand. Belle stared, frozen in horror. _Does he only have four fingers on that hand?_

Celandine had noticed too. She gently touched her cousin's clenched fist and asked quietly, "What happened to your hand, Uncle Fro?"

Frodo's eyes -which had been closed- flew open at that light touch and he stared, first at her, and then at his hand, an enigmatic expression on his face. For a time he sat silently, his left hand wrapped protectively around the wounded one. Finally he mumbled, "I lost it due to my own stupidity," He was silent for a moment and then added, "and selfishness."

"That ain't true," the little gardener protested. Frodo shot an angry look at him and both hobbits fell silent, their eyes dark with memory.

"What happened?" Celandine ventured, but Frodo shook his head.

"Not tonight, Celli," he said, "It's too dark out."

The trio sat silently again for some time and Belle watched them, but no-one else in the room seemed aware of what had been happening. She surreptitiously withdrew the stolen writing from her bodice and re-read it. Try as she might she could not make the harsh writing and the mournful hobbit that she had seen all day fit together. _Perhaps that phrase isn't as terrible as Largo and I think._ Yet, that didn't change what had been written in Westron, and that had been merciless. _Of course, she never liked him either..._

"All right, Mr Baggins, I have the rooms all arranged, I sent Elmas to the inn for your things, and your dear Sam is even in the room right next to you." There was a slight sneer in Largo's last words. Frodo glanced up at him briefly.

"Thank you, Mr Bracegirdle," he said quietly. Largo appeared slightly bewildered at the lack of fight and the pervading air of gloom which the quartet shared. "So, what did it mean?" he asked Belle.

"What?" asked Belle, puzzled.

Largo gestured at the paper in Belle's hands. "That phrase."

"Oh!" Belle suddenly felt embarrassed by the idea of asking about something that was obviously so private. She frowned. What was wrong with her? Hastily she answered, "I haven't asked him yet."

Frodo glanced up at them sharply, but held his tongue.

"What sort o' phrase?" the impudent servant demanded.

"Nothing that you would understand, I'm sure," Belle returned haughtily.

This time it was the servant silently giving her sharp glances, but Frodo said sternly, "Unless it was written in something other than the common tongue I'm sure he would understand it fine."

"Can he read?" Belle gaped. Frodo stiffened visibly.

"Yes, miss, I can, as Mr Bilbo taught me when I was just a lad," the gardener returned, just as stiff as his master. "I could prove it if'n y' don't believe me," he added rather rudely.

"You needn't prove a thing to them, Sam," Frodo cut in.

"Well, I'm a-thinking as we might-a found your letter, Mr Frodo," the gardener explained, not even looking at the indignant siblings. "If'n this phrase is written in sommat like Elvish-"

"I should have burned it up when I had the chance," Frodo muttered.

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but y' didn't have one," the servant pointed out. The siblings exchanged a look.

"We found it on the floor by the front door and read it to see if we could figure out whom it belonged to," Belle explained casually. It wasn't a complete lie -she _had _found it on the floor.

"It appeared to be one very long insult," Largo added pointedly.

"I see," was the only comment that the master of Bag End made, but Belle felt as if his gaze could see right through her skin.

"Do you know what (she squinted at the paper) 'Ellen silla lum-en o-men-till-mo' means?" she queried innocently. Frodo's face drained of colour.

"Elin _see_lal_oo_menn omen_teel_mo," he corrected her. The words seemed to roll off of his tongue like a waterfall. "It's a Quenya greeting," Frodo continued, ignoring the odd look that the servant was giving him. "It means, 'a star shines upon the hour of our meeting.' It was one of the first Elvish phrases that I ever learned. Although," he added with a steely gaze, "I believe that you already know that."

Belle could feel the tips of her ears burning as she re-read the first section. "And she boxed your ears," she whispered.

Frodo laughed shortly. "_Not _one of my fondest memories, I can assure you," he returned as he rose to his feet to claim his paper.

"Not so fast," Largo ground out icily. "What does that last part about the world ending and all that nonsense about 'what is and what could be' mean? It doesn't sound as if you were calling Aunt Lobelia or anyone else 'friend'."

A blue flame blazed up in the other hobbit's eyes. Belle felt herself shrinking at the very sight of it; this raging, consuming fire which held behind it a very palpable, barely controlled fury. Undaunted, Largo glared back, refusing to retreat an inch. Belle hastily laid the paper in Frodo's outstretched hand and shrank behind her brother in case that hand should decide to strike. Frodo clenched the paper tightly, griping it in his fist until his knuckles turned white.

The servant had risen to his feet and was standing close behind Frodo, his own brown eyes smouldering and fists clenched. Looking at him Belle felt that if his master only said the word the gardener would kill them. The entire room was staring dumb-struck at the confrontation between her brother and the master of Bag End. Belle held her breath, waiting for one of them to attack the other. She tugged on Largo's arm, silently begging him to sit down, but he gave no sign that she was even there.

After several tense, silent moments (during which Belle was almost praying that nothing happened) Frodo spat, "I don't believe that's any of your business. Excuse me."

He nodded shortly, turned on his heel, and quickly left the parlour. His servant gave the pair a venomous glare and then, as if they weren't worth wasting his breath on, he deliberately turned on his own heel and followed his master. Largo wordlessly growled under his breath, but the rest of the company remained silent; every eye in the room stareing after the departed pair. After some time Uncle Mungo commented, "I believe that you've put your foot into it this time, Largo Bracegirdle." Largo only snorted.

"I think he might be right," Belle mumbled, but of course her brother chose to ignore her.

"Mum?" Celandine asked softly, going over to her mother, "What was that?"

"I...I don't know, Celli," Hilda answered hesitantly, "I've never seen him act that way in his life." Belle's sharp ears pricked up at those words.

"Why did Frodo do that, Mum?" Hilda's younger son, Ilberic, asked.

Hilda just shook her head. "I'm not sure, lad," she murmured.

-o-o-o-

Translations:

_Elen síla lúmenn omentielmo - A star shines on the hour of our meeting_

_Namárië, mellon nin - Farewell, my friend  
_

A/N: Credit for the funeral style goes to Larner, as well as the reason for the move to Woodhall. Lobelia was spreading rumors that Frodo was the illegitimate son of Bilbo.


	3. 2 Decisions

**2. Decisions**

Sam could almost hear his master's footsteps as the older hobbit strode towards the front door. Frodo's head was erect, his shoulders held stiffly back, and Sam could tell by the deliberate sound of his breathing that he was still furious.

A rather surprised hobbit in a work coat noticed the pair just as Frodo pulled, or rather _jerked_ open the front door. "Are y' leavin' us, Mr Baggins?" he asked.

"I haven't decided yet," Frodo answered shortly and exited the smial, giving the door a decided thump as he pulled it shut behind him.

"Snakes an' adders," exclaimed Sam, taking a step back. He turned to the other hobbit. "Not that I blame him. D'you work here?"

"Yessir," the hobbit answered.

Sam flushed. "Now, now. There ain't no call for that," he said hastily. "It's just as I don't know if'n we'll still be here t'night, but y'might save them rooms just in case. I've got to go find Mr Frodo."

"Aye, sir," the bewildered hobbit answered as Sam dashed out of the door.

The night was as dark as pitch and Sam, unfamiliar with the terrain, stumbled down the path. "Mr Frodo?" he called anxiously. There was no answer. Sam stood silent for a moment, trying to hear any sound his master might make. He heard only the wind, rushing through the trees.

"Mr Frodo?" he called again. The rustle of leaves seemed to mock him. "Oh, please, sir," he mumbled, "Don't you a-gone back t' that grave." He stood for a moment full of indecision, and then began to make his way to the top of the smial in hopes that he would be able to see something from the hilltop.

"Per'aps he's got th' Lady's star-glass out," he mumbled as he climbed. "He does hate th' dark so, an' rightly so. Though there's plenty o' stars out t'night." He threw a look up at the sky as he spoke. The midnight blue of the heavens was brilliantly studded with the diamond-like lights. They shimmered and twinkled and appeared to wink saucily at the gardener. He gazed at them indignantly. "An' just where were you when we needed you so last Rethe?" he demanded. The stars gave no answer. Sam shook his head and hurried up the hill. "Ninnyhammer," he muttered to himself, "They were right there where they belong, o' course. We just couldn't see 'em for all that ash an' smoke." He addressed the stars again. "Wisht as you would-a come out so as Mr Frodo could of seen you. He always seems that much better after lookin' at th' stars. I think as they give him hope, somehow, sometimes."

"Yes, it certainly would have been nice to see them," Frodo's voice answered from the grass only a few feet ahead. Sam nearly jumped out of his skin. "Although," the voice went on, "I seem to recall you telling me about a star that _you_ saw in- in the black land."

"Mr Frodo, don't do that to me," protested the little gardener. "You 'bout scared me t' death!" He hurried over to his friend, who sat up from among the weeds where he'd been lying.

"I'm sorry, Sam," he smiled. "I wasn't trying to frighten you."

"I know," Sam answered, plopping down next to him, "I just weren't expectin' a voice t' come up from th' ground, like. What are you doin', sir?"

"Sir?" Frodo retorted incredulously.

Sam rolled his eyes, "Mr Frodo, you are never goin' t' change th' way I speak!"

"Well it won't be for want of trying," Frodo muttered, but Sam could hear a hint of a smile in his master's voice and it warmed his heart.

"What _were _you doin', Mr Frodo?" he queried.

Frodo stretched. "I was watching the stars, just as you suggested."

"Me?"

"Yes, you," Frodo retorted. "I could hear you all the way up the hill."

Sam blushed and was glad of the darkness, for then Frodo wouldn't see it.

"You were right about them giving hope," Frodo went on softly, "but they also help clear one's head immensely. It's so quiet up here." He lay back down and Sam followed suit. The rage he'd felt against the Bracegirdles' cruel attack still boiled inside of him, but he had found Frodo and his master appeared to be calming down. Slowly Sam's own ire cooled. Thoughts of a lone star in a forsaken land sprang unbidden to his mind. The stars overhead blurred and vanished as the gardener silently wept for all that had happened and for the beauty that was slowly being restored. Frodo lay silent beside him, fingering the white jewel that Queen Arwen had given him. After some time he began to speak.

"I will stay here," he began, almost as if to himself. "It makes no sense for me to leave only to come back again."

"Aye, sir," agreed Sam.

"However, I want you to go home."

Startled, the gardener sat up and stared at his friend. "Why?" he managed to force out.

"For several reasons," Frodo answered, also sitting up, "but the main reason is because I _won't _have them insulting you all week,"

"But I don't mind that, sir, truly," protested Sam, "I'd ruther stay here with you and go home at the same time, like we planned."

"That was before this matter of the will came up," Frodo said. "Now I don't know how long I will be here. I hope that it's only a week, as Master Bracegirdle suggested, but even this little trip was too long to separate you and Rose in my opinion. I don't want you to stay here any longer than necessary without her."

Sam snorted. "I think Rosie'd understand, and what 'bout your own obligations?"

"I'll send them a letter explaining what's happening," Frodo answered decisively. "I'm quite sure that they can cope without me for a week."

Sam gave his master a look. "I never heard o' no mayor as left his post for a week t' look at property."

"Deputy mayor," came the cool reply, adding, "Perhaps not, however, our dear Will has taken off before for various reasons, the most recent of which was to attend his daughter's wedding last year."

"Two years," Sam automatically corrected.

Frodo paused for a moment.

"You're right," he said, and then sighed. "How time passes. Sometimes it seems as if the quest was three ages ago. And then other times..." his voice trailed away.

"Aye," Sam agreed.

Frodo's voice was low. "I wanted to kill them. I haven't felt a rage like that since-since...not _at_ anyone."

Sam looked at his master, his dearest friend, but didn't know what to say. They were both silent for a while. The stars grew brighter overhead and the night became deep. Out of the blue Frodo spoke.

"I'd like you to take the book home."

At this Sam turned to stare at his master. The older hobbit gazed out at the night, never looking at his friend. Finally Sam found his tongue.

"Me?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Bilbo's book?"

"If you would." Frodo's tone was cautious.

"Me?"

Frodo chuckled, but it was a hollow sound -no joy. "Just say no if you don't want to."

"It's not as I don't want to," Sam mumbled, "I'd just...I wouldn't trust it with me, sir," his voice fell even lower. "I might forget it somewhere, or lose it t' thieves. Not exac'ly th' most trustworthy."

Frodo's tone was one of pride, admonition, and sincerity. "I can't think of another person in Middle-Earth whom I would rather trust it with than you," he said seriously, causing the gardener to simultaneously blush at the praise and hang his head in shame, for when it came to this book he felt unworthy of any kind of trust. Deep inside he still felt that he had lost any 'worthiness' of anyone's trust in a treacherous mountain pass when he'd abandoned his dear master.

"I'd still ruther not," he mumbled.

He felt a hand rubbing his back and slowly lifted his head to see Frodo gazing at him with compassion. "It's fine, Sam," he murmured, trying to reassure his friend. "You needn't worry about it. If you don't want to I can certainly keep it with me."

Sam ducked again, ashamed to ruin Frodo's plan, but he did not trust himself to take care of something so precious to his dearest friend. "I'm right sorry t' spoil your plan, Mr Frodo, but-"

"Don't worry about it, Sam," Frodo was shaking his head. "I'll figure something else out." He was silent for a few minutes, thinking, then said "If I take it along with me every day then they won't be able to try and read it. It would be safe enough, I think...and I might even be able to get some writing done. I certainly couldn't at that inn last night."

"That place were a regular nightmare, an' no mistake," Sam declared hotly. "Y'd think as grown hobbits'd know enough t' keep quiet when some'un asks 'em."

"Well, that's never been enough to stop Merry and Pip," Frodo grinned.

Sam had to grin at this as well. "No, sir, that it hasn't," he agreed. A thought crossed his mind and he gave Frodo a sideways glance. "Are y' sure y' don't need a lit'le help with this lot? Y'might need someone t' watch your back."

Frodo was still grinning. "I can watch my own back, thank you very much."

Sam gave him a sceptical look. "Oh?"

"You insult me, Sam," Frodo sounded mock-indignant. "I most certainly can, at least as far as guarding my own privacy. That is," he added more cautiously, "_if_ you didn't pack my mail shirt."

Sam gave him a funny look. "What?"

"My mithril coat," Frodo explained. "You didn't pack it, did you?"

"No sir," Sam answered slowly, wondering what his master was talking about now.

"Oh good, that's a relief," Frodo sighed. "I was afraid that I might have to wear that every day." He fell silent. Sam sat silently too, wondering if his master had just gone mad.

"To hide it," Frodo clarified."

"Alright..." they were quiet again

"Because I would have to guard my privacy."

"Aye."

Silence.

"That was a joke, Sam."

"Oh." _Seems as Mr Frodo lost his sense o' humour somewheres._

"Apparently it was a rather terrible one, too."

"Yes sir," Sam grinned.

Frodo sounded perturbed, but Sam could hear a smile lurking underneath. "Well, you tell one then."

Sam grinned again, but this time it was in triumph. "Well..." he drawled, "I know this one 'bout a stubborn old hobbit who wouldn' go t' bed."

Frodo sounded miffed. "I think I've heard that one before, thank you."

"It's true as 'taters though."

"That doesn't make it any funnier."

"An' how d' _you_ know it ain't 'bout a fellow thet fell asleep _in_ his 'taters?" Sam was indignant.

"_In_ them? How would anyone fall asleep _in_ potatoes?"

Sam began grinning again. "I'm sure as I don't know, sir, but I saw it."

"Where?" Frodo was intrigued.

"At th' fun'ral feast earlier t'day. There was a chap there as _in-joyed_ his food, if'n y' take my meaning."

"I believe I do," Frodo chuckled.

"Well, this chap had _four_ bowls full o' them lovely mashed 'taters this aft'ernoon, an' some migh'ty big helpin's o' everthin' else, too. An' so he were talkin' along with his neighbour, when all at oncet th' food musta hit him, 'cause he yawned oncet an' then jus' toppled right over int' his bowl, snorin' like a hog."

Frodo laughed at that. "Was he all right?" he snickered.

"Yes, sir, far as I know," Sam laughed. "But if'n he weren't a sight when they pulled him out! He had 'taters in his ears an' his hair, an' when they were cleanin' him it looked like they was shavin' off some strange hobbit beard."

"No!"

"Aye, it did. But thet ain't th' bes' part."

"What then?" Frodo demanded between his snickers.

"Well sir, he had a faunt with him, barely mor'en two, or I'm no judge o' hobbit-age. Anyways, he picks up this lit'le lass an' she smells the 'taters right away, so she," Sam was laughing so hard that he could barely finish, "she sticks out her lit'le pink tongue an' starts lickin' him like, like she were a, a lit'le curly-haired cat!"

The pair roared with laughter.

"Was he surprised?" Frodo gasped out.

"Aye! His eyes! They were as big as," Sam shrugged, "as big an' round as... dinnerplates! No other word for 'em. An' he, he musta jumped a foot!"

"An' jus' _what_ d'you think you're doin' on th' hill this time o' night?"

The two hobbits nearly leaped out of their own skin as the voice boomed behind them. Guiltily they turned to see a sturdy looking figure with a lantern glaring down at them. Sam recognised him as the hobbit who had been at the door earlier and grinned sheepishly.

"Jus' tellin' a joke or two," he answered.

"Well," the burly hobbit squinted at them. "Mr Frodo, is it? An' Mr Samwise? Beggin' your pardon, sirs, but mebbe y' ought t' go t' bed. I can show y' where it's at."

Frodo sheepishly rose to his feet, but then gave a hiss of pain. "Oh, stars, my side," he gasped. Sam was on his feet in an instant, but Frodo chuckled again. "Sam?" he murmured, "Will you help an old hobbit to bed?"

"Course I will, sir," Sam grinned, "an' if'n y'like, we can argue more in the morning."

"Oh, I don't think so," Frodo smiled, "You see, I have Rose on my side. If you leave your new bride I fancy that she'll have both of our heads."

"Now, now, Mr Frodo, that ain't fair, draggin' poor Rosie in here like that," Sam grumbled good-naturedly.

Frodo grinned as the trio started down the hill. "Perhaps not," he conceded, "but when it comes to your happiness -and the health of us both- I think it's worth the price."

-o-o-o-

Rethe - hobbit for March


	4. 3 The First Evendim

Evendim - hobbit for evening**  
**

**3. The First Evendim**

_ Mistress Baggins_

_Belle Baggins_

_ Belle Bracegirdle Baggins_

_ Belle and Frodo_

_ Mistress Frodo Baggins_

_ Mistress Belle Baggins_

_ Mistress Belle_

Belle looked up from her daydreaming scribbles to glance at the mantle clock. 'Six fifty-three,' the timepiece read. It seemed to mock her anxiety with its monotonous tick, tick, tick. _Wonderful_, she thought, _five minutes later than the last time I looked. Where are they!?_

Largo was never this late to supper, not even when rain was pouring down and he was coming from Sackville, which was a good thirty miles away. She was starting to feel a little anxious. Largo enjoyed his meals too much to skip them for any reason, and he _knew_ how important this night was to her. He had promised to retreat to his study after supper, leaving her alone with Frodo Baggins for the first time in her life. It was a night that she had dreamed of since she was a tween, and she planned to make a good impression-and perhaps erase the one from last night.

She tugged gently on her left ear, mentally running through her work list again. She'd had every room in the smial cleaned and aired, she'd prepared the best bedroom for its _proper_ occupant -she still could not believe that Largo had put _that_ odious, above-himself servant in the best bedroom instead of the master of the wealthiest hole in the Shire- and she had carefully prepared one of her best meals, certain that it would help impress Frodo's stomach, along with a lovely pie for afters. She had no doubts that it would be a most wonderful evening -_if_ her guest (and her brother) ever arrived, that is. The pie was going to be cold before those two showed up.

Belle frowned at her paper. Surely this wasn't a precursor to what the rest of their time would be like, was it? If it was Largo would be livid. He'd been mad enough when that servant of Frodo's hadn't left until ten in the morning.

She felt her temper rising again at the thought of that - that - well, miserable fool seemed to fit rather well. The creature had done nothing but argue all morning. He'd argued over what should be done with Frodo's pony, that it was Largo and Belle who ought to apologise for the scene last night, and not Frodo at all, why "it ought t' been Mr Frodo in that big bedroom an' not me, sir," and even how much breakfast his slender master should have eaten (which was the one point Belle agreed with whole-heartedly).

Most of all though, he had tried to change Frodo's mind about sending him home. The stubborn creature had harped on it until Belle had felt ready to scream. The astonishing thing was that Frodo had allowed it -nay, he'd even_ encouraged_ it with his little smile and some of his comments, as if he were bantering with a friend. In the end Frodo had won, of course, and the impudent wretch had stalked away saying, "I've heard it afore an' I'll say it again. If'n Mr Frodo Baggins ain't th' stubbornest o' hobbits-"

Largo had been watching the entire thing and had at this point made some offhanded comment about how docking part of the gardener's pay might take care of that attitude. The gardener had stopped in his tracks and flushed red up to the ears, looking back at his master with chagrin. But Frodo had given Largo a steely glare that silenced him, and then escorted his scarlet-faced servant out of the kitchen, saying in a voice loud enough that all present could hear, "And _that_, my dear Sam, is precisely why I _don't_ want you to stay here with me."

"-telling you, Baggins, that was an opportunity and you missed it."

"That was not an opportunity. That was a young couple looking for the hope and security necessary to-" The slam of a door drowned out the rest of Frodo's answer. Then Largo's angry baritone cut in again.

"And _this_ is a hopeless romantic with no head for business!"

Apparently the lads had finally arrived. Belle hurried to the front hall where she knew the two travellers would be hanging up their cloaks.

When she reached the coat hooks she had to correct herself. Largo was hanging up his cloak. Frodo still had his firmly clasped about his shoulders. The pair appeared to be having a rather heated debate.

"You let it go for a song!" Largo roared.

"The lease I offered is more than fair," Frodo countered, more than a touch of steel hardening his voice.

"Yes, for whom?" Largo demanded, "You won't be taking care of any clean-up or reparation claims with a miserable thirty silvers a quarter!"

"At the same time we'll hardly be helping the Shire if we are robbing one family to pay for the next," Frodo swiftly retorted. "They are a young couple with limited resources in a Shire that's still recovering from the Time of Troubles last year."

"Limited resources?"

"Farming and carpentry. I examined some of his work. They will be able to afford thirty a quarter and still be able to make a living. They would _not_ be able to afford forty-five."

"You only sold it to them because you heard that lass singing. Admit it!"

_My brother sounds like a whining child,_ Belle thought.

Frodo sighed. "I will admit that I enjoyed her singing, but nothing more."

"Don't give me that, Baggins," Largo returned, "I saw that look in your eyes. What did she remind you of? Your mum?"

The determined stubbornness in Frodo's face froze over into an icy glare that would have stopped even Lotho Sackville-Baggins in his tracks. "Enough," he said quietly, yet to Belle his voice seemed to ring with authority, "This argument will serve no purpose except to drive a wedge between the two of us. I have made my decision." He turned to Belle and his gaze softened. "Forgive me, Miss Bracegirdle," he said, "but I believe that it would be best if I spent the night in my room. I fear that I'm entertaining a headache."

"You must be throwing quite the party, then," Largo muttered, not entirely cowed.

The muscles in Frodo's jaw worked visibly. "Quite so," he said shortly, "Excuse me." He picked up a large leather satchel which had been leaning against the wall (and so had escaped Belle's notice), slung it over his shoulder, and began making his way towards the small room that he'd slept in the night before. His head was erect and he held his shoulders back stiffly.

Belle was dismayed. She could just see all of her carefully laid plans crumbling, and rushed down the passage after him. "Wait, Mr Baggins," she called.

He stopped and turned back towards her, his expression polite, but resolute.

"Yes, Miss Bracegirdle?"

She caught up to him. "Please excuse my brother. He sometimes speaks without thinking." She shot a glare back at her brother as she spoke, who didn't have the decency to look ashamed. Turning back to Frodo she continued, "Don't let his poor manners scare you off, though. He'll only be around for supper and we don't discuss business at the table."

"Thank you, but-"

"She's quite right, Baggins," Largo interrupted, striding purposefully towards the pair.

Belle noticed the wariness that appeared in Frodo's eyes and grimaced inwardly. _Lovely. I'll have to overcome his impression of Largo, too._

"I have some work that I need to finish," Largo continued, "so I'll be retreating to my study after supper."

"And trust me," Belle added, glaring at her brother, "we will _not_ be discussing anything which happened today during the meal."

"No, no," Largo agreed, "In fact I won't say another word about it. You _clearly_ have your mind made up." His voice dripped sarcasm, as usual.

"You're quite right," Frodo said stiffly. "I have."

The two hobbits eyed each other as if they were a pair of cocks looking for a fight.

"So then," Belle said hurriedly, "it's settled. Just give me five minutes to set everything out."

Frodo was already shaking his head. "Thank you both, but I'm really not that hungry-"

"Oh, come off it, Baggins," Largo interrupted again, "You barely ate anything all day. I'd be starving. I am starving! So, why don't you stop stalling and we'll enjoy some supper, and then I'll leave you two troublemakers alone for the evening." He sniffed the air appreciatively. Frodo opened his mouth, but Largo threw up a hand. "No, don't speak," he commanded, "just smell." The three of them silently inhaled the fragrances wafting from the kitchen. "Braised pork," Largo murmured, an expression of bliss wiping the scowl from his face. "Oh, Mr Baggins, you are in for a treat tonight. Nobody makes braised pork better than Belle." He cocked his head at her. "And I'll wager that there are potatoes?"

Belle nodded, feeling quite pleased. "Yes, of course, mashed potatoes with plenty of butter and rosemary, and just a hint of garlic for you." Both hobbits made small moans of pleasure. She smiled and continued, "There's also a nice green salad, fresh bread, glazed carrots," she gave Largo a sly look, "and onion soup."

"Stars above," Frodo murmured.

Largo's eyes widened. "You didn't," he whispered dreamily. Turing briskly to Frodo he said, "Baggins, I give you five minutes. If you aren't at that table by then I will drag you there by your braces. Belle, I could kiss you for this," he called as he rushed to his room.

"I'd like to see you try," Frodo muttered, a defiant glint in his eyes. It took Belle a moment to realize that he meant the threat of being dragged about, and not the kiss.

She gave him a concerned look. "You will come, won't you?" she asked, "I did make it especially for you."

Frodo smiled down at her. "With an invitation such as that how could I possibly refuse?" he replied gallantly. "Just give me a few minutes to put my things away."

"Certainly," Belle smiled back. Frodo then turned and went to his room. Belle stood for a moment watching him, and then hurried to set out the meal.

-fjfjfjfjfjfjf-

Frodo washed and groomed himself as quickly and neatly as he could (paying careful attention to his foot hair), donned a fresh waistcoat, and hurried to the dining room, but he was still two minutes late. He tried to apologise, but Belle waved it aside carelessly.

"Don't even think about it," she advised him, her hazel eyes dancing with mischief. "I don't mind if you're a little late, and Largo will never know if you don't tell him." She gestured at the empty seat at the head of the table and added conspiratorially, "Between ourselves, he won't even be here for another three minutes. Five minutes always means ten to Largo."

"I see," Frodo murmured. He warily eyed the covered dishes that were spread out across the table, and then turned to face the West -which in this case was facing the fireplace at the back of the room. As he observed the Standing Silence he could feel Belle watching him curiously, but she said nothing, for which he was grateful.

After a few moments he sat down across from her and offered a polite smile. She immediately beamed back at him. "You've no idea how glad I am to find someone who admires it besides me," she confided. "My mother always hated it, and she would have gotten rid of it years ago except that it was a gift from the Old Took himself to my great-grandfather. It's been handed down through the family ever since."

Frodo gave her a puzzled look. "I beg your pardon?"

Belle frowned. "Why -the painting, of course. When I was a lass I used to wonder what was around the bend. I always fancied a small farm or perhaps a village like Hamtown."

Still slightly bewildered, Frodo turned back to the fireplace, and then understood. Above the mantle hung a painting of a quiet Shire road winding its way between a gentle green hill and a silvery lake just beginning to be kissed with the rays of the setting sun. It was flanked by two white birches on the hill side and a simple split rail fence beside the lake. The road disappeared around the bend of the hill, leaving the observer to wonder what lay beyond it. He smiled, reminded of Bilbo's old walking songs. The hobbitess was still speaking.

"-of course it's all nonsense, but still, my mother insisted that it was far too adventurous for any sensible hobbit and ought to be locked up. Thankfully though, my father left it up because it was a gift from old Gerontius, and a mathom of sorts."

"Admiring that old picture, Baggins?" Largo's voice broke in, drawing their attention to him. "You can have it if you like."

Frodo smiled. "Thank you for the offer, but I wouldn't wish to deprive Miss Belle of it."

"Too bad," Largo returned. "I'd like to be rid of it."

"You're right on time," Belle said, abruptly changing the subject. "We were just about to start without you."

"Well, I'm very glad that you didn't," returned Largo as he took his seat. "Once old Baggins tastes that soup there won't be any left. In fact," he added with a wink at Frodo, "I wager that you'll want to marry her just so that you can have the recipe."

A familiar thrill of resentment washed over Frodo, but he forced himself past it. He raised an eyebrow sceptically at his host. "Is it really that good?"

"Just try it," Largo chuckled, ladling a generous portion into Frodo's bowl. He set it carefully down in front of his guest and then began filling his sister's bowl. Frodo eyed the brown liquid before him. It certainly _smelled_ wonderful. His stomach clenched as he was suddenly and rather violently reminded of Aragorn's disastrous snail soup, which had also been brown and had smelled wonderful.

"Are you well, Mr Baggins?" He looked up to see a very worried pair of hazel eyes staring at him from across the table.

"Yes, of course," he lied hastily, hoping that his face wasn't turning green as he spoke. "It smells delicious." She still gazed at him suspiciously so he took a mouthful to convince her. His eyes widened with pleasure and any association -real or imagined- to the fateful Gondorian escargots immediately fled. The soup was marvellous; creamy with a delicate flavouring, strong enough that he could tell that they were onions, yet not so strong that they would come back to haunt later. He eagerly -though still cautiously- 'tucked into his meal,' as Sam might have said. The glance of satisfaction which his two hosts gave each other did not escape his notice.

-fjfjfjfjfjfjf-

_Spider-bite, poisons, months of deprivation, near starvation-_

"Don't you like it, Baggins?"

Frodo looked up from the plum sauce that he was absent-mindedly stirring around into Largo Bracegirdle's overly-cheerful face. He forced himself to smile back. "Like it?" he echoed, "How could any self-respecting hobbit not like it? I think that it's delightful. The whole meal has been."

"Ah." Largo glanced at the plate that was still a third full of potatoes, carrots, and meat, and gave his guest a suspicious look. "Then why aren't you eating?"

Frodo gave his meal a regretful look, trying not to let the resentment he held for his stomach show. "Well, I'm afraid that I'm not very hungry this evendim. It has been quite good though, especially the onion soup, Miss Belle -although I don't think that I'm quite ready to marry you yet." He managed to give her a crooked grin.

"Oh, what a shame!" Belle exclaimed, a teasing smile dimpling her cheeks. "I suppose that we'll have to seal it over a strawberry-rhubarb pie after supper."

Largo continued to eye Frodo's plate. "You weren't hungry earlier either."

Frodo felt his temper returning, but squashed it down with an effort. He took a moment to finger the white jewel, and then admitted, "I fear that the recent circumstances have taken away my appetite."

"Recent circumstances?" Belle gave him a curious look.

Frodo could feel his headache returning full force. "Lobelia's death," he said softly. _And other things._ His hand tightened on the white jewel.

"Oh." Belle Bracegirdle fell silent, a pink flush stealing into her cheeks. Largo also reddened, and both siblings busied themselves with their meals. After a few minutes of awkward silence Belle began to make small talk and slowly the hobbits worked their way through the dinner. Before it was over Frodo had managed to finish half of what was left on his plate.

Largo got up from the table stretching and rubbing his belly. "Oh," he groaned cheerfully. "That was the best meal I've had all week."

"That isn't saying much considering that it's only Sunday," Belle shot back good-naturedly. She gave Frodo a hopeful smile. "Did you enjoy it, Mr Baggins?"

He smiled at her concern. "I thought that it was all delicious, Miss Bracegirdle."

"You still didn't eat much," Largo pointed out, but now it was in a friendlier way.

Frodo turned towards him, pretending to give him a severe look. "I still relished every bite, in spite of the fact that I took few of them," He chuckled at the look on Belle's face and she smiled in reply.

"Well, I'm off," Largo announced. "Call me when you have the pie ready." He nodded to the pair and strode from the room.

Belle gave Frodo a cunning smile. "He's gone," she whispered conspiratorially.

Frodo inclined his head in acknowledgement. "So he is."

Belle looked at him sideways from under her lashes. "Would you care if we made our way to the parlour? It might be more comfortable to talk there than at the table."

Frodo considered her offer for a moment and then inclined his head again. "Lead the way, madam."

-fjfjfjfjfjfjf-

As Miss Bracegirdle led the way to the parlour Frodo had the feeling that he was being set up. He was certainly no stranger to the well-meaning attempts of his cousins to find him a wife, or to the tricks that certain females had played on him over the years, and the fact that he and Miss Bracegirdle would be alone in a room together did not escape his notice. Nor had the excellence of the dinner or the fine dress which Miss Bracegirdle was wearing. He had very little doubt that this was just another in a long series of attempts to wed and bed the Master of Bag End. He grimaced at his hostess's back, but determined to be polite. It wasn't as if fending off these attacks would be anything new.

A cosy fire had already been lit before they arrived, causing the entire room to smell of apple-wood. A fine settee had been placed before the hearth and, much to Frodo's dismay, the other chairs had been pulled far enough back that it would be seen as rude to take any other seat. A vase of hawthorn and crab-apple blossoms graced the mantelpiece in the same place where he and Largo had leaned against the hearth yesterday discussing plans for the week, and on a table next to the pokers sat a silver platter on which rested two teacups and a large kettle waiting to be placed over the fire. Oh, yes. This plan had been well thought out.

"Please sit," Belle invited him, gesturing to the settee. Reluctantly he sat down, but immediately stood back up as Belle Bracegirdle began bustling about.

"May I help you with anything?" he offered.

"No, sit down," Belle laughed, "I'm nearly finished with this and then I'll join you." She shooed him back towards the settee and continued with her preparations. He gingerly sat back down and began tracing a finger through the gold velvet of the cushions as he watched her disappear into the kitchen. She emerged in a few moments triumphant and balancing a large plate of biscuits and other tea things on one hand and a golden pie with the other. "Now," she laughed breathlessly as he leaped back up, "if you'll just take this I shall put on the kettle and the pie. Do you prefer tea or coffee? Or perhaps something a little stronger?" she gave him a wink, but he took no notice of it.

"Tea, please," He carefully took the tray, giving the biscuits and sandwiches a dismayed look which Belle did not see as she turned towards the fire.

"Just set it over there," she directed him, nodding to her left.

"Over where?"

"_There_, of course," she repeated, as if that answered everything. Frodo frowned in bemusement, but then placed the tray on a nearby footstool and sat back down. The soft velvet of the settee certainly was a welcome relief after riding around all day and listening to Largo Bracegirdle insult his decisions. He rubbed his forehead, trying to rid himself of the headache which still had not quite dissipated, in spite of his hosts' fine care and an excellent meal. Belle's dress rustled cheerfully as she put on the kettle. The firelight gleamed and danced off of the hobbitess's curls and the purple dress, making her look as if she were wearing a dress of fire and wine. He shook his head to get rid of the image, and then stared at the glowing flame reflecting off of the dress. _Where have I seen that before, and off of this dress?_ Slowly a long-forgotten memory, swallowed up by a wheel of fire, floated to the surface.

"Was that Lobelia's dress?"

Belle gave him a look of surprise and flushed. "Yes, it was," she admitted. "I thought that it was appropriate for tonight."

Frodo nodded slowly. "I believe that I remember it."

Belle kept looking at him with a mixture of surprise and bemusement. "You couldn't have," she said. "Aunt Lobelia hasn't worn it in years. It didn't fit her for a long time, until after the Time of Troubles. We almost decided to bury her in it, except that she insisted on the green one. She said that it was more appropriate somehow."

"No, I've seen it before, once, at the Free Fair," Frodo countered softly. "The firelight glowed off it the same way."

"Not recently you haven't," Belle retorted.

"No, not recently," Frodo agreed. He stared for a few more moments, remembering a happy Free Fair night and a lad who was prancing with excitement.

_Papa and Mama swung into the dance while Uncle Bilbo minded Frodo. Uncle Bilbo leaned down and whispered, "Your mama looks like one of Gandalf's fireworks tonight." _

_ Frodo laughed and demanded a dance with his favourite uncle. They were trying to dance the Springle-ring when a hobbitess in a purple dress said loudly, "Oh look! The father and son are dancing together!"_

_ "Where, Uncle Bilbo? Where?"_

_ Frodo spun around looking for the two hobbits that were dancing, but Bilbo had put his hands protectively on Frodo's shoulders and glared at the noisy purple hobbitess. She'd hurried away rather quickly._

"Mr Baggins? Is something wrong?" Frodo found himself dragged out of his memories to the sight of Belle Bracegirdle's worried face. He hastily blinked back the tears that he could feel forming and gave her a smile.

"No, just some old memories," he assured her.

She looked relieved. "Oh really? Do tell," she said coyly.

He just shook his head, holding his lost memories close, and more than a little unwilling to share such an unkind memory with Lobelia's self-proclaimed favourite niece.

Belle seated herself on the settee and cocked her head at him. "Oh, come on," she smiled beguilingly, "I can keep a secret."

"I'm sure that you can," he returned politely, "but I would rather not discuss it."

She looked at him for a minute as if wondering how to unlock his tongue, but then gave him a tight-lipped smile that reminded him of Lobelia's before he had left. "Of course, if you don't wish to talk about it we don't have to," she said in a voice which seemed sickeningly sweet.

"Thank you," he answered firmly.

She looked away, but not before he caught sight of her perturbed frown.

-fjfjfjfjfjfjf-

So that's how he wants it to be? He mentions a memory of Aunt Lobelia and then won't tell what it is? _Well, we'll see about that_, Belle thought. She turned back to her guest and twirled a loose curl around her finger, smiling teasingly. "Is there anything that you _do_ want to talk about?" she asked.

A light flush crept into his pale cheeks and he had the grace to look embarrassed. "That was an excellent dinner," he mumbled.

Aha, the standard first topic of polite conversation, and a compliment to try and smooth things over. Should she accept? She wondered how often he spoke with females -if ever. He certainly did seem awkward. She graciously decided to let it slide. "Thank you. I'm glad that you enjoyed it." His look of relief was almost amusing, but she wasn't really interested in comments on food tonight. Not with _the_ Frodo Baggins sitting next to her on the settee. For a moment she almost felt shy. "Tell me, did you enjoy your ride today?" No, no, no, that was _not_ what she wanted to ask!

Frodo gazed at the hearth. "It was enlightening," he said quietly. "I had no idea that Lobelia and Lotho owned so many properties. I don't know that I would have sold them Bag End if I had known."

"Oh?" Belle was indignant. She hadn't expected a reaction like that. "Why not?"

"They didn't need it."

"And why did you sell it in the first place?"

Frodo's right hand strayed to that magnificent white jewel that hung around his neck. "I needed to sell it quickly and I knew that she wouldn't ask very many questions." His tone grew softer, "And she always did love the gardens. I was certain that she would treasure them the way that Bilbo and I did-" his voice broke and Belle gave him a look of surprise. A tear was trickling down his cheek, and even in the ruddy glow of the fire he seemed abnormally pale. His gaze went to the ceiling and his chin set determinedly. When he looked back down the tears were gone and he smiled at her, although there seemed to be something missing from it. "Were you ever able to stay there when the gardens were - still there?"

She caught the hesitation and winced. She had heard -everyone in the Fourfarthings had heard- how the Ruffians had tried to destroy Bag End. How the garden had been filled with sheds, and the orchards and vineyards had been cut down and made into a great bonfire, and how the hole had been filled with filth and trash. Belle was sure that there wasn't a hobbit in the Shire who didn't in some small measure feel sorry for Frodo Baggins; even as they said that he got what he deserved for selling his hole to the Sackville-Bagginses. That memory made Belle grit her teeth. Poor Frodo, everyone said, but Aunt Lobelia? They had shunned her and blamed her for everything. _Why couldn't you control that Lotho? Why couldn't you stop your son?_ That's what they'd all said. Frodo had gone mad and Lotho was as evil as a goblin, and Lobelia . . . Lobelia was the old hag who'd planned the whole thing. No one had ever come out and said it, of course, but everyone thought it. She could see it in their eyes. And the Master of Bag End was the worst of the lot. Pretending to be so sorry about Aunt Lobelia and mourning her death, and all that time he was probably laughing up his sleeve at her. Him _and_ his grubby little gardener. The words he'd written yesterday afternoon sprang to her memory.

_ In my tweens I avoided you at all costs. You were the thief, the talebearer, the liar who had me constantly defending my parents. You were the bane of my existence. I disliked you the day that I sold you Bag End. I loathed you the day that I moved. _

_Well,_ she thought, _we'll just see who's laughing at the last, _Mr_ Baggins._ She glanced over at him, having quite forgotten what the question was. Apparently he had too, for he was staring blankly at the fire as if to smother it with his heavy gaze. She put on her brightest smile and said in her most interested tone, "Tell me about yourself."

From the look that he gave her he had forgotten that she was even there, but then he smoothed it over. "There really isn't much to tell," he answered politely.

_Modest, aren't we?_ she thought sarcastically. "Oh, come," she said, snuggling closer as she spoke, "Even the most boring person in the world has a few good stories about themselves, and from what I've heard all my life _you_ certainly aren't the most boring person in the world." She felt him stiffen and hid a smile of triumph. She would have to be cautious if she didn't want to scare him off before she had him hooked. "What was your childhood like? Or your parents?"

"I would prefer not to speak on that subject, thank you." The quiet answer felt like the equivalent to a door being slammed shut. She gave him a surprised look.

"Oh. All right," she searched her brain. "What about growing up in Buckland? Did you have a lot of playfellows?"

"Not really," he answered quietly. "My cousins were all either older than me, or else much younger."

Belle pondered that for a moment. "Did you ever do anything interesting?"

Frodo was silent for a moment, but then said, "Nothing that you haven't heard before, I'm sure. Swimming, scrumping, climbing trees...camping," a small smile crept across his face at the memory.

"Really?" Belle was more than a little surprised at this. "Did you sleep outside, or would you go back home at night?"

A noise that might have been a chuckle came from Frodo. "Oh, no. We stayed out all night. My cousin Bilbo would take me."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Yes. We'd fish and talk and hunt for mushrooms, and Bilbo would tell stories and teach me the stars. As I grew older he taught me everything that he knew about camping. He always said that you never knew when such knowledge would prove helpful."

"I never heard of such a thing," she teased.

Frodo's smile became soft with memory. "That's what all of my relations said, but Bilbo never paid them any mind."

"I'm sure he didn't," Belle said wryly. Then she smiled. "Did you enjoy being his ward?"

Frodo's eyes lit up for the first time that evendim. "It was a dream come true," he said. "I'd been wishing to live with Bilbo since I was twelve and he took the time to listen to me. He was the one who was most able to help me through my grief after my parents died, and made sharing a room with my cousins much easier. Merry and I both loved him dearly, not only because of his stories, but because he truly cared about us. When he asked me if I wanted to come live with him at Bag End, well . . ." Frodo's smile became almost dazzling. "You might say that I jumped at the chance."

"I can see that," Belle chuckled "What was it like?"

Frodo's smile became soft with nostalgia. "I-I can't really explain it."

"Well then, what did you do?" Belle persisted.

"Everything," Frodo chuckled. "My upbringing was - I was considered weak at Brandy Hall and was...protected. Most of the time I felt so 'protected' that I thought I would go mad. When Bilbo adopted me I was finally allowed to do almost anything. I helped mend roofs and assisted the neighbours when they needed it, and Sam and the Gaffer would let me help in the garden and with the harvest." He had a dreamy look in his eyes. "We would make wine in the autumn, just the way that Bilbo said Uncle Bungo used to, and Bilbo always had me climb the trees in the orchard to get the apples at the very top. He taught me everything that he knew. History and languages were my favourite lessons, but I loved natural history, too, and we would go walking through the fields and woods for hours, and of course there were the proper hobbit subjects."

"Letters, cooking, genealogy, etiquette," Belle offered

Frodo nodded. "Arithmetic, gardening, and dancing," he added.

"You never needed to learn a trade, of course." Belle murmured, glancing up at him from under her eyelids.

"Oh, but I did," Frodo smiled, "Bilbo taught me bookbinding and copying."

Belle felt slightly scandalised. "That's hardly a normal trade," she ventured.

She saw Frodo shake his head with a smile. He was laughing at her! "No, but Bilbo rarely did anything normal, bless him," he answered in a voice brimming with love for the cracked old hobbit.

Belle's mind was reeling. Frodo had _worked_? And at such a disreputable trade, no less! Surely the rumours of wealth weren't just rumours. Surely there was _something_ substantial behind them. She found herself asking, "But, surely you just worked for the fun of it, didn't you? I mean, you didn't need the money."

His smile faded and that pair of brilliant blue eyes regarded her with an unfathomable gaze for a moment. Belle felt as if Frodo Baggins was reading her every plan for him, but then he looked back at the fireplace. "No, Miss Bracegirdle," he murmured. "My cousin used to say that it was how he made sure that he had enough money for his pipeweed."

"Oh, well-" Belle began, but then fell silent.

"Yes?" he prodded, his keen eyes coming back to her.

Belle felt a bit pressed upon and fumbled around a bit. "Did you ever copy anything interesting?" she finally asked.

"We would copy books of Elvish tales, or of poetry, and any that were sent to Bilbo from outside of the Shire," Frodo answered. "Sometimes the Thain or the Master would want them. If a hobbit did write a book we would make any extra copies that he -or she- wanted." His soft smile returned. "I remember one winter when my aunt wrote a book on manners. She wanted seven copies made of it, too." He took a moment to chuckle at the memory, and then continued, "Bilbo and I had our hands full that time. For the most part though we would copy invitations and important documents -or at least those that were _considered _important." He chuckled again.

Now, here was a subject that Belle could warm to. Who cared for stuffy books or Elvish tales? She preferred some action. "Did you copy the invitations for your coming-of-age party?" she asked by way of a lead in.

"Bilbo and I did together," he answered.

She fairly beamed up at him. "I thought that they were beautifully done from the moment that I first saw ours. I'd never seen anything written so fair in all my young days. The page was like pure snow, and the gold writing gleamed like buttercups in an open field. I wanted to tell you how much I liked it when I saw you at the party, but you always seemed to be surrounded by others."

Frodo grimaced. "Yes, I fear that's the price one must pay for throwing a party," he said dryly.

"I always wondered -when I was a lass of course- if the ink was real gold. Was it?"

He glanced at her briefly for a moment, and then looked away. With a frown at the crackling hearth he mumbled, "I don't remember." He paused and then his frown deepened. "I don't even remember the invitations."

"That's a shame," Belle sympathised, "They really were lovely." She was not about to admit that she still had the family one from years ago. She had treasured it, along with the little flute and the pair of gloves which had been her gifts that magical night, in a special box reserved for mementos of her future husband.

"Are we related?" he mumbled, looking a bit like a tween lost in his genealogy lessons. She couldn't resist teasing him a little.

"What, Frodo Baggins?" she grinned, "Can't you remember your family tree?"

That unnerving gaze pierced her again, but this time he appeared to be searching for something. She stared back, but quickly found that she could not match his gaze. Finally he mumbled, "I'm afraid that I don't remember your family at all." His gaze fell to his lap and Belle noticed that he was fumbling with the white jewel which was hanging around his neck.

Relieved that he had looked away Belle rambled, "It's not likely that you would. I don't know of any connection between our families, and my father was certainly surprised when we got the invitation. He'd met your cousin Bilbo a few times, but he never thought that anything would come of it. At first he thought that it was a joke and we almost didn't come, but then Cousin Hilda showed us hers and we all knew that it had to be real. So, Father accepted your invitation and we all piled into the carriage and came to Hobbiton and stayed with Aunt Lobelia and Uncle Otho. They almost didn't come, either-"

"I don't doubt it," Frodo muttered wryly

"-but when they saw how splendid the invitation was they simply had to come. I stuck close to her side at first, let me tell you." Belle chuckled. "I'd never seen so many hobbits in one place before in my life and felt very shy. You were so polite though. Even in the midst of all your guests you came over and bowed very politely and invited me into the games. You even complimented my dress." This was a complete fabrication. Aunt Lobelia had finally had to tell her that no one was going to come near her until they were drunk as lords unless she got away from Aunt Lobelia. "We danced a set together, too," she added. That part at least was true. She'd felt as if she were floating rather than dancing when that had happened, and he _had_ complimented her dress at that point.

Frodo was frowning at her with intensity, one hand rubbing his forehead, the other tightening around his jewel. She caught his gaze. "What?" she demanded, feeling rather daring. "Don't you believe me?"

He kept frowning.

"I was the one in the flame-coloured dress, remember? You said that I looked like firelight, and then you spun me around..." Her voice trailed off. He didn't remember her. She had been hoping all these years that he hadn't married because he was looking for her. She'd even kept a piece of the dress safely in her box, for part of her wedding garments. Now he didn't even seem to recognise her.

"I'm sorry," Frodo finally said, looking a bit stricken, "I can't remember it at all."

He looked so ashamed that Belle almost felt sorry for him. "Never mind, then," she said as kindly as she could manage, "I'm sure that you danced with a good many lasses that night. I was probably just another face."

"And I was a bit preoccupied," he muttered, his knuckles whitening from the grip he had around the jewel, "but still, I ought to remember," he went on a bit viciously. "If I can recall a memory of Lobelia from when I was three I should remember a flame-coloured dress, at the very least!" The last words came out in a hissing snap and he immediately looked repentant. "Forgive me, Miss Bracegirdle," he murmured. "Perhaps it would be best if we changed the subject."

A bit dismayed at the turn that the topic had taken, she agreed.

"Why don't you tell me about yourself, Miss Bracegirdle?"

She laughed a bit at that idea. "Well, unlike you there really isn't that much to tell." She snuggled a little closer to him until their thighs touched. She felt him stiffen at her side and bit back a smile, but then tried to compose her thoughts. "Let's see...I am the middle child in my family, and the only lass. Elbin and Largo are older than me, and Torgo and Gandis are both younger. I've lived in this hole all of my life, and the farthest that I've ever travelled was Hobbiton to visit my relatives. My mother died when I was twenty-five, and Father followed her when I was forty-"

"I'm so sorry," Frodo murmured.

Belle paused and gave him a soft smile. "It was a long time ago. It doesn't really hurt any longer."

"Not with a sharp pain, but a dull ache still lies underneath." Frodo said softly, almost as if speaking to himself.

Belle gave him a sharp glance and then looked hastily away. "Sometimes," she admitted.

They sat in silence for a few minutes and then the tea-kettle began whistling. Both hobbits started out of their reveries, and Frodo clapped his hands over his ears with a look of distress.

Belle felt relieved. The air in the room had been getting far too close. "How silly of me," she laughed, "I forgot completely about our afters. You must be starving." She batted playfully at his hands as she rose to remove the kettle. "Oh, come," she teased, "surely it isn't _that_ loud." She began to pour the tea into the porcelain teapot, but kept one twinkling eye on her guest. Slowly his hands slid off of his softly pointed ears and he gave her a shame-faced smile.

"Is there anything that I can do to help?" he offered.

"How gallant," Belle teased. "Well, you _could_ remove the pie. I think that it's hot enough. That would give me time to call Largo."

Frodo rose and took the towel that she had used to remove the kettle, and Belle went to the parlour door. "Largo," she called down the passage, "Largo, pie's ready!"

A garbled yell from the study echoed back in reply.

"What?" she demanded.

"He said that he would be here in a minute." Frodo answered quietly from his place by the hearth.

Belle shot him a startled look, but he was backlit by the fireplace and she could see nothing except a dark figure kneeling by the hearth and rubbing his head. "You could hear that?" she gasped.

The figure froze. "Yes."

Belle was gaping. "How could you possibly...?"

The dark figure was now squirming just a bit, "I'm afraid that I have... extremely sharp hearing."

Belle came back to the fire. "Well, I must say that I'm impressed," she told the kneeing figure. "I have never known such a good pair of ears existed." Now she could see his face, and clearly he was embarrassed.

"They're really more of a curse than a blessing," he muttered awkwardly. "I can hear almost anything, even the slightest whisper in a room. Conversations among several groups end up giving me headaches."

"Oh, but think what you could hear," Belle said, wonder in her tone.

"Oh yes, just think of it," Frodo retorted sarcastically, a look of contempt on his face. Immediately it was replaced with one of contrition. "Forgive me," he murmured. "Often this...seeming gift is not worth the price at which it comes."

"What price is that?" Belle asked curiously.

"I have to be constantly on my guard or I find myself eavesdropping," Frodo explained. "I don't wish to bring any embarrassment on someone that way."

"I suppose that does make sense," she admitted reluctantly, "but still-"

"Where's the pie?" exclaimed a loud, boisterous voice from behind the settee. Belle jumped.

"Largo, you miserable wretch," she gasped. "What do you think you're doing?"

Largo's grinning face popped over the back of the furniture. "I was trying to frighten Mr Baggins over here, but apparently my evil scheme has backfired." He turned to Frodo. "Don't you startle, Baggins?"

"Not when I can hear you coming," Frodo returned gravely.

"Impossible!" Largo declared. "I was moving as quietly as any hobbit ever could."

"Nevertheless, I did hear you," Frodo repeated.

"He has very good ears, Largo," Belle put in.

Largo cocked his head to one side. "How good?"

Two red spots crept into Frodo's cheeks. "If I wish to, I can hear the slightest whisper in a room. I'm afraid that you didn't frighten me because I heard your footsteps."

"Impossible!"

"If only it were," Frodo mumbled.

"You came in here hunting for pie, I believe?" Belle tried to interrupt.

"How well can you hear?" Largo repeated, ignoring her.

Frodo looked up at him for a minute with that sharp, piercing gaze that Belle already didn't like, and then he drew a hissing breath and deliberately replied, "I believe that it was last night as you were leaving to find spare beds for Sam and I you whispered in Miss Bracegirdle's ear, 'Try to warm him up, will you? He's as stiff as an icicle.' "

Both siblings gaped at him and an uncomfortable silence filled the room.

"So, what about that pie?" Belle finally asked. Both hobbits accepted the offer, Largo loudly and eagerly, and Frodo with a quiet word and silent gratitude for the change of subject which Belle could almost feel. The trio forced themselves to make small talk and discussed the food, weather, small Shire doings, and the events of the day. Again, Belle noticed that Frodo ate far less than either she or Largo, but he was so polite and agreeable in every other area that she decided to let it pass. Slowly the atmosphere in the room began to regain a semblance of camaraderie.

It was as Frodo was finally managing to finish his slice of pie that Largo, with a friendly smile on his face but a stubborn gleam in his eye, said, "So, Baggins, have you thought any more about my proposal?"

Frodo, who had just stuck a forkful of strawberry-rhubarb filling into his mouth, shrugged and gave Largo a quizzical look.

Largo frowned down at him in reply. "It's not like it's that much," he growled. "It's exactly what Aunt Lobelia was asking for the place."

Frodo struggled to swallow the filling. "Do you mean the GreenWood thmial?" he asked thickly. He hastily took a drink of tea to wash it down.

"What else?" Largo demanded. "Did you have a different property in mind?"

Frodo eyed the other hobbit over the rim of his cup for a moment, and then placed it on a nearby footstool. When he finally spoke his tone was studiously polite. "No, Mr Bracegirdle. I simply wished to clarify the subject before attempting to answer your question. The answer is, no, I have not considered the matter further. I understood it to be closed."

"Why?" Largo demanded. With dismay Belle realised that his notorious temper was starting to flare a little. "Why do you insist on letting the place for thirty silvers? Are you trying to prove something?"

"No, I am not," Frodo answered, still polite, but the friendly tone from earlier was replaced by one with a bit of an edge.

Belle suddenly had the feeling that she was witnessing what had happened every time the ponies were within shouting distance of each other that afternoon.

"No? Why do you see the need to challenge every price Lobelia suggested then?"

"She was assessing the property from the standpoint of the past," Frodo answered gravely. "Two years ago it may have been worth forty-five silvers a quarter, or perhaps even more. I don't know. I, however, am evaluating it from the perspective of what is acceptable now. Until those trees grow back the property won't be worth more than thirty. It may only be worth twenty-five," he added as Largo's face became an alarming shade of red.

"Twenty-five, are you mad?!"

"No, I am not. I am merely saying that it was far worth more before the war than it is now."

Largo looked to be on the verge of an apoplectic fit. "What war?"

"Oh, stars!" Frodo groaned. He rubbed his forehead as if it ached and regarded Largo for a moment. Drawing a deep breath he said, "I know that you haven't forgotten the Time of Troubles or the Battle of Bywater last year. At the same time that the Shire was in so much trouble the rest of Middle-Earth was also at war. We fought against - a terrible enemy - until nearly Astron. After that all the lands of Middle-Earth were recovering from the damage that had been done."

"From the great battle that you and your travelling companions were all a part of, am I right?" Largo's voice was heavy with sarcasm.

"Yes." Frodo's voice was quiet.

"And you dallied around doing who-knows-what until Blotmath while your own folks suffered? You couldn't find it in your heart to come back and help out sooner?" Before Frodo could answer Largo added, "Oh, wait, that's right. You're the one who stood back and watched, aren't you?" His barb seemed to hit home, for Frodo turned white and for a moment Belle feared that she would have to step in and intervene, but no rage built up in those blue eyes, only pain and sorrow, and something odd underneath that she couldn't place. With a start she realised that it was that strange look from yesterday. She stared at him in a most un-hobbitlike display of curious fascination, but then he seemed to pull himself into a shell, leaving his eyes devoid of all expression.

"I did not draw sword in the battle, no," was the quiet reply.

Largo appeared to take this as a sign of surrender, for he snatched two sandwiches from the platter and bit into one with a satisfied smirk. Frodo sat silently for a few minutes, staring into the fire and ignoring all of Belle's attempts to draw him back into the conversation. Abruptly he rose to his feet, murmuring, "If you will excuse me I believe that I will go to bed."

"Go ahead. Goodnight." Largo returned brusquely. Frodo turned to leave.

Belle frowned at her brother and said, "Oh, Mr Baggins?"

Frodo turned back to them. "Yes, Miss Bracegirdle?"

"I had the best bedroom properly aired and put fresh linens on the bed. If you would like to escape that linen closet that my brother put you in you are more than welcome to change rooms."

Frodo gave her a tiny smile. "Thank you for the offer, but I believe that I shall remain in my present room. I find it quite pleasant. I do wish to thank you for putting Sam in the best bedroom last night though. It was an honour that he well deserved."

With that Frodo went to the door, leaving a fuming Largo in his wake. At the door however he paused and turned back. Placing one hand on his chest he said politely, "I thank you both for the hospitality which you have shown me this night, and I regret that I must leave your company so soon. I bid you a good night and deep and pleasant dreams." He bowed to his surprised hosts and then slipped out of the room.

Once both were certain that he would be out of earshot Belle poked her brother in the ribs and whispered, "That was horribly rude of you. You told him that it wouldn't come up again."

"That was during supper, not after."

"Cheater. He and I _both_ thought that you meant ever again."

Largo shook his head disdainfully. "Of course not. And he hasn't heard the last of it yet. That smial is worth far more than he is appraising it at."

"Are you sure?"

"Are you taking _his_ side?" Largo was incredulous.

"Of course not," Belle hissed under her breath. "But when your brother plays such a mean trick on your soon-to-be betrothed you find yourself wondering. _Especially_ when your betrothed is so polite about it."

"Polite? Ha!"

"_You_ would have forgotten your manners entirely and stormed out of the room in a huff if someone had done that to you. And that was terrible of you to bring up his involvement in the battle."

"You mean 'war'?" Largo mocked.

Belle was exasperated. "You know what I mean."

Largo only snorted. "Belle, everything that I said was true. You'll notice that he didn't even bother trying to deny it."

"Maybe so," Belle shot back, "but you broke your word, Largo. You promised him that it _wouldn't _come up again. Period."

Largo gave her a disdainful look. "Belle, you have bigger things to worry about than my social abilities, I assure you."

"What do you mean?" she snapped.

Largo rose to his feet, a condescending smile pasted onto his face. "You might consider asking yourself 'What else did he hear?'" Belle gave him a puzzled look and he leaned down and whispered into her ear, "Or should I say, 'what did _your betrothed_hear'?" He smirked as Belle's face drained of colour and quickly left the parlour, leaving Belle staring into the fire.

-o-o-o-

Translations:

Astron - Shire equivalent of April

Blotmath - Shire equivalent of November

-o-o-o-

A/N: More credits! Copying books for pipeweed money and Aunt Dora's manners book came from Larner, the exchange of "Set it there." "Where?" "There!" is a tribute to Macphee in C.S. Lewis's That Hideous Strength (somebody, please read it!), and snail soup is a nod to Budgielover's A Lesson on Hobbits.


	5. 4 A Final Word

**4. A Final Word  
**

Belle was still pondering that question as she prepared for bed that night. How much of their plans had Frodo overheard? Did he know what they were up to? Was he just toying with them? She clearly remembered Largo saying, "_Try to warm him up, will you? He's as stiff as an icicle_." She tried to think back through yesterday's conversations as she washed her face and brushed her hair. Had she said anything that Frodo could find incriminating? Had Largo slipped and made any comments about their plan? She carefully laid out her nightgown and began undressing. She was half-tempted to try to get Frodo to tell her if he had heard anything else, but what in Middle-Earth would she say if he asked what she was so worried about? _Well, I was afraid that you might have overheard that Largo and I are planning to make you marry me..._ Oh, it was just too ridiculous!

As she removed her skirt a piece of paper dropped to the floor, landing with a heavy-sounding thup. Surprised, she picked it up and examined it. Oh, yes. This was the envelope that she had found on the dining room table earlier. Printed in a neat, unadorned hand were the words, _To Miss Bracegirdle_. She had discovered it around the time that Hilda Brandybuck and her brood had been leaving. She had tucked it into her skirt band to read later and had promptly forgotten about it. _Well, better late than never_, she thought. She opened it and began to read.

_Dear Miss Bracegirdle,_ it began

_ Seeing as Mr Frodo won't let me stay here with him, and since I don't know how much you would listen if'n I spoke with you I am writing this letter so as in case something happens you will know how to take care of him._

She stopped and looked at the envelope again and reread the first line, then turned the page over and stared incredulously at the signature. _S. Gamgee._ This was from Frodo's servant? She began again.

_Dear Miss Bracegirdle_

_ Seeing as Mr Frodo won't let me stay here with him, and since I don't know how much you would listen if'n I spoke with you I am writing this letter so as in case something happens you will know how to take care of him. See, he won't tell you because he don't like folks to know, but he's got a delicate stomach and he can't eat as much as you and me. I think as you saw this yesterday at the dinner after the burial, and at first breakfast this morning. I saw you fretting about that. Miss, let me tell you, he won't stand for any of that. I were arguing with him because he were eating even less than usual, and you saw the results of that. He don't like folk to know when he don't feel well, and he will try to make you think he's fine._

_ He might be off for several days, mostly because he's mourning your aunt. Please don't plague him about eating, and don't fix anything terribly rich, especially since he'll be bouncing around on that pony of his all day. It just might come back to haunt him, if'n you take my meaning._

_ Miss, let me tell you that he's a stubborn Baggins, bless him, and he will do his level best to be polite and keep you from knowing if'n he's ill. Don't press him or mother him, but if'n he says as he's not hungry he probably isn't feeling well. Just let him go to bed and he'll be better in the morning. You might bring him some toast and soup, and especially cold water, but naught more than that._

_ Don't bother him when he's taking a bath. He don't like it._

_ If'n he gets a headache I've found as lavender water will do wonders, especially if'n it's soaked into a handkerchief and laid over his eyes, but like as not he'd take care of that hisself._

_ I think that covers everything. Please take care of my master. He told me not to worry about him, but I can't help it. He's like that to me. Watch out for him, and I'll be right grateful._

_Your servant,_

_ Samwise Gamgee_

_Postscript_

_ Please don't let anyone know as I've told you these things, and especially not Mr Frodo. If'n he thought folks were gossiping about him he'd be right furious. Speaking from experience he'll be a sight more co-operative with you if'n he don't know as you've been warned aforehand._

_ S. Gamgee_

Belle read the letter again. Frodo had said that he wasn't that hungry, and had complained of a headache, but then he had come to the table and eaten...less than a plateful...and he had looked ill when he first saw the soup...and there was his moodiness...she frowned down at the well-meaning letter. Perhaps there was something in the advice to let him go to bed, but that it should come from a servant? That a gardener would presume to offer advice on caring for his master? The idea of taking suggestions from the odious creature grated on Belle. _And what could he possibly presume to know about the health or the temperament of Frodo Baggins?_ Disgusted with even the idea of taking the servant's advice she threw the letter onto the hearth and watched it burn with a small measure of satisfaction. Then she finished her preparations for bed and snuggled down, carefully planning tomorrow's supper. _Let's see, a fine mushroom soup to start, and then perhaps a chicken of some sort..._ Slowly she drifted off.


	6. 5 Starglass

****A/N: This chapter is rated for violence. If you wish to avoid this you can skip down to the

-fjfjfjfjfjf-

without missing much.

**5. Star-glass**

The world was black, so black that he could see nothing. He lay upon the stony ground, arms stretched above him, consumed by despair. His sight was gone. There was nothing but a void as far as he could see, but in the distance a fiery glow blazed. It was a fierce glare that illuminated nothing, that seemed to draw all remaining life and colour out of the world. He feared that glow more than anything -that it would utterly consume him, both body and fëa.

As if it sensed his fear the blaze slowly began to creep closer. He shut his eyes, but the hideous burning light seemed to be imprinted in his skull. Beneath his body he could feel rough, stony ground. It cut into his tender flesh, digging and gouging holes into him.

A ponderous weight lay on his chest so that he could scarcely breathe. The Ring. The all-consuming golden flame which was slowly beating his body into submission. Once again, It was crushing the breath out of him. His hand lifted to move towards It, but then stopped abruptly. His eyes flew open, suddenly aware of a constricting pain in his wrists and ankles.

A pair of bulbous yellow eyes leered down at him, giving his body a satisfactory sweep. With a surge of horror he realised that he was naked, chained helplessly to the ground with his arms and legs outstretched, and the Ring was plainly visible to all. The orc looming above him began to laugh and the roar of it cut like a whip, slicing into his body. _No!_ he thought, _this can't be happening! Not again!_

He struggled to free himself, but the chains bound him too closely to the ground. His tormentor laughed harder and the blows from the invisible whip struck deeper. Crimson rivers of blood flowed from Frodo's body and every inch of him throbbed with fiery pain. The orc straddled him. Its eyes seemed to burn into his skull, aroused by the hideous spell-binding song of the Ring. It laid one of its hairy, taloned hands on his bare stomach and forced his heaving, squirming body to the ground

"Now, don't you worry, Mr Frodo," the creature mocked. "I'm just havin' a look at It. No harm."

The world seemed to freeze for an instant. Frodo gazed up at the hideous creature in disbelief. "Sam?"

"Sam!?" it roared, shaking with laughter. Frodo tried to shrink into the ground away from the rain of blows. The orc wiped its eyes. "Well, o' course, Mr Frodo. Who else would it be?" The voice was Sam's.

"No..." Frodo whispered, and then, "No!" he screamed. "You are _not_ Sam! You can't be Sam! What have you done with him?!"

The fiend leered down at him and reached for the Ring. Frodo's struggles redoubled, but to no avail. A taloned hand lifted the Ring from his chest and yanked It over his head. The chain ripped at his ears as it came off. The orc stared down at him for a moment, the Ring clutched in its warty hand. Then slowly, almost sadly it said, "Don't you recognise your Sam?" It turned and walked away.

Frodo was incensed. He struggled wildly, and then suddenly was free. He rushed upon the orc-Sam, seized the knife in its belt, and plunged it into its belly. The orc looked at him with shocked brown eyes, the loathsome features fading.

A flash of fiery red and hideous gold swept by his eyes and a dark, whispering laugh sailed past his ears. He blinked. He was fully clothed; the Ring still hung as a terrible burden about his neck.

Sam sank to the ground before him, Frodo's orc blade buried in his stomach.

"I-I were just goin' - t' wake you, sir," he gasped. "I we-weren't goin' t'-t' take It, sir."

"Sam," Frodo cried, falling to his knees beside his friend. "Oh, oh, Sam. I'm so sorry. I...I didn't-I never meant-" He cradled his friend in his arms, babbling in his panic.

"Shh, shh," Sam whispered, gently brushing his hand across his master's cheek. "I know." His breath caught for a moment, and then he gasped and continued, "I know, sir. It-it weren't you, it were - _that_."

"Sam," Frodo's throat was tight with grief, "Please for-forgive me." He choked on the words, tears streaming down his face.

Sam tried to give him that cheery grin of his, but a stab of pain ran through his body and it twisted into a grimace. "Naught - t' forgive, s-sir. It's al-alright."

Frodo could already see Death's shadows on Sam's face and held him closer as if that would somehow reverse the consequences of his actions.

"Promise - me, Mr Frodo. Y-y' have t' - promise m-me," Sam was whispering faintly and Frodo had to lean down to hear it.

"What, Sam? Anything," he wept.

"P-promise - me - as you'll - d-destroy It. Please, - Mr Frodo," Sam was almost panicking. Both hobbits knew his time was soon.

"I promise, Sam. F-For you."

Sam nodded slowly. "They s-said. . . _d-don't you_. . . _leave him_. I'm - I'm sorry, - Frodo."

"Sam-lad, I am so sorry." Frodo was sobbing. "I can't do this without you. I need you, Sam."

There was no answer.

"Sam?" Frodo peered through tear-blurred eyes at his friend. Sam's eyes were blank and staring. His face was the colour of wax. "Sam?!"

-fjfjfjfjfjf-

Belle jolted awake, her heart pounding as an unearthly scream echoed throughout the passages of Green Hill. Horrified, she leaped out of bed and hurried to Largo's room, barely pausing to grab her dressing gown from the end of the bed. _Ruffians,_ she thought, her mind racing back to the last terrifying year._ They've broken in and now they're killing Largo!_

She was almost whimpering as she grabbed for his doorknob. It was roughly jerked out of her hands and she stumbled forward only to be caught by strong hobbit arms.

"Belle?" a gruff voice gasped.

Belle nearly collapsed in relief. "Largo," she babbled, "I thought they were killing you. That horrible scream-"

Largo's arms tightened around her. "I thought it was you, and that Lotho was doing you some mischief."

Belle pulled away a little and suddenly realised that her brother was carrying a very heavy candlestick. "Were we both dreaming?" she asked dazedly.

Another eerie wail rang through the passage, but this time it was abruptly cut off. The siblings froze in shock for a moment and then with horror Largo exclaimed, "Baggins!"

The two of them bolted down the passage, honour-bound to defend their guest whether they liked him or not. Largo tried to push Belle back as he threw open the bedroom door, but she ducked under his arm. The room was dark except for the light of the stars outside, and neither of them could tell if anyone was in the room.

"Frodo?" Belle called, rushing to the side of the bed.

"S-Sam?" cried a tenor voice that sounded thick with tears. "Sam, I'm sorry! I'm s-so sorry! P-please forgive me! I didn't mean it-I t-truly never meant-that blasted ring-I w-wasn't, oh, Sam!" He clutched at her, weeping. Belle shuddered and pulled away from his maimed hand, her bleary mind stricken with horror. _What was he saying?_

"Here now, Baggins, you let my sister be," barked Largo, dashing to the side of the bed. The hands mercifully retreated and Belle hastily took two steps backwards. The sobs died away, replaced by the sound of quick, but quiet, gasps. Largo began poking around the room as best he could, searching for intruders. Belle watched from her place by the bedside.

"What's the meaning of this, Baggins?" Largo demanded. His voice was rough from the fright Frodo had given them. "We thought that you were being attacked. What was that scream about?"

There was a moment of silence, and then a brilliant shaft of silver light blazed up from the midst of the bed-clothes, illuminating the entire room as if it were day. Belle fell back, blinking and shielding her eyes as Frodo held the glow aloft. "What is _that_?" she heard Largo exclaim.

"Forgive me," Frodo said in a quiet voice. "I fear that I had a nightmare. I did not mean to waken you, and I apologise."

"A _nightmare_?" Largo sounded utterly disgusted.

"Yes," came the quiet response.

Belle's eyes were adjusting to the light and now she saw that he was clutching the front of his nightshirt with his right hand, an unreadable expression on his tear-streaked face.

"Are you alright, Mr Baggins?" she asked.

Frodo nodded firmly. "Yes, Miss Bracegirdle. It was nothing."

"Nothing." Largo observed dryly. "It must have been quite a bit of _nothing_ to produce a scream like that,"

A grey shadow seemed to pass over Frodo's face and his grip on the nightshirt-_no, _Belle realised, _the white jewel around his neck_- tightened.

"What was it?" Belle asked sympathetically.

Frodo shook his head. "It doesn't bear repeating," he replied. "Forgive my foolishness. It will not happen again, I can assure you. Please, go back to bed."

Largo gave him a sceptical look but shrugged his shoulders. "Fine," he returned. "Come on, Belle. Apparently Mr Baggins is too good for the likes of us to help him. He'd rather have his precious Sam."

Two red spots appeared in Frodo's chalky-coloured cheeks, but he said nothing, instead dropping his glowing hand to the quilt which still lay across his lap and gazing hard at it.

"What is that?" Belle asked suddenly. "Your fist doesn't just glow like that, does it?"

He looked up at her with surprise, and then his gaze fell to the white fire in his lap again. Slowly a beautiful smile crept onto his face. The fear and -whatever it was- which still lurked in the corners of his face seemed to vanish. "No. It's a gift that I received on our journey," he answered quietly. "A phial of starlight set amidst the waters of the Lady's fountain." He slowly uncurled his fingers from the object and held it flat in his hand so that she could see. Belle blinked as the pure silvery light blazed more brilliantly from Frodo's hand. She hesitantly ran her fingers over this glowing thing that she could barely see. It felt like a fine glass bottle, cool to the touch and quite small. Her fingertips brushed across his as she touched the phial and she felt him tremble. His fingers were cold to the touch and felt delicate in the dark. She dragged her attention back to the mystery in his hand.

"Where did you get it?" she whispered.

"The Lady Galadriel gave it to me," he answered. His hand closed around it again and he held it to his chest. "A light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out," he murmured softly, as if remembering something long past. The light welled through his fingers, illuminating him. He looked up at her and she froze, caught as if in a spell. In that silvery light he looked too beautiful for a hobbit. Almost she found that she could believe the old stories of Elves and lords and strange creature that she had heard when she was a small lass. In that magical light anything seemed possible, and she seemed to be standing before an Elf lord from one of her favourite tales from faunthood. She drew a sharp breath of shock.

"Is something wrong?"

The vision seemed to fade and the Elf lord dwindled back down to Frodo Baggins, sitting cross-legged on his bed with a blanket over his lap and a quizzical look on his face. She shook her head to clear it of the last vestiges of the dream. _What poetic nonsense_. Aloud she said, "No, I'm just tired." A wave of drowsiness swept over her and she realised that she hadn't been lying after all.

Frodo smiled at her. "Why don't you go to bed then," he advised. "Just close the door behind you. I'll be fine."

She blinked stupidly at him, and then noticed that Largo had left the room. She hastily bade the Baggins goodnight and slipped out. As she closed the bedroom door she thought that she could hear Frodo within singing softly.

-o-o-o-

Translations:

fëa - soul


	7. 6 Of Pipeweed and Ruffians

**6. Of Pipe-weed and Ruffians**

Monday, 22 Thrimidge, 1420 S.R.

"What about fourteen and a half for those pipe-weed fields?" Largo asked around a mouthful of bread. He and Frodo were having luncheon in a small inn called The Stuffed Goose just outside Hamtown. Both were enjoying the house speciality: garlic mushroom soup, fresh garden salad, skillet potatoes, and roasted goose with apple and walnut stuffing, with two sweet rolls and a large wedge of cheese for a dessert.

Frodo looked up at him from his plateful of goose and stuffing quizzically. "Do you mean for rent?" he queried.

"Yes," Largo braced himself for a fight as Frodo began to frown.

"Personally I was thinking sixteen," he said thoughtfully.

"Well, that's just-" Largo began and then faltered. "Sixteen?"

"Yes," Frodo nodded. "There's good earth there still, and a clean water source nearby. That should make them worth about sixteen silvers apiece per quarter, with perhaps fifteen percent of the profit going into the coffers as well."

Largo, who had been rather surprised at this assessment, now frowned also. Fifteen was a little excessive for a landowner's percentage cut in any family, and with as generous as the Baggins had been yesterday this almost sounded exorbitant. _What is the Baggins up to now?_ "Fifteen?" he mused. "Why not ten?"

"I know it does seem a bit much," Frodo admitted, "but this is for the restoration of the Shire. With a fifteen percent rate a family will be able to live off of the profits, but we are still fulfilling Lobelia's request." His voice took on a sardonic tone, "Provender for so many can be rather expensive, you know," and then more seriously, "not to mention all of the supplies and tools for rebuilding, costs of caring for the wounded and homeless, other oddments and 'homey touches,' as Sam would say, and of course any emergencies which may come up, the Valar forbid."

_Valar_. Largo shook his head, wondering what in the Shire the Baggins was talking about now.

"If you're going to think about it that way, why not just make it half of the profit, or even sixty-three percent?" he wondered. "A hobbit could live off of that."

"It depends on the harvest and how large his family is," Frodo disagreed. "You and your sister could, perhaps, live off of that little. Many hobbits however have six or seven in their family. And if there were a poor harvest even you and Belle couldn't live off of that."

"Hmm," was all that Largo would reply, and he thoughtfully shovelled goose into his mouth. Frodo ate a few bites as well before pausing again with a frown.

"We wouldn't be able to let the place either, if we charged so much," he mused.

"Quite right," Largo spoke through a mouthful. He washed it down with a drink of cool tea and added, "Which leads to the question, how do you intend to let these fields with such a high percentage cut?" He stabbed at a potato to underline his point.

Frodo slowly chewed his own mouthful before answering "It wouldn't remain so high." he finally said. "After about five years have passed the Shire should be sufficiently recovered. On the second of Yule, 1425, the percentage would be reduced to seven percent, at which point the money would then be set aside for the upkeep of the Shire, helping businesses to thrive, and other matters of that nature."

Largo's eyebrows rose until they almost touched his hairline. "Well, I must say that you seem to have this all figured out," he said. Then they lowered again. "What if the Shire _isn't_ sufficiently recovered by then?"

Frodo took a sip of his tea, then said, "I don't believe that we will have any problems there, but you do have a point." He mulled on that for a few moments, nodding thoughtfully to himself as he did so. "We _could_ leave the specified date for the reverting of the percentage out of the contract. We would tell the renters that we expect the rent to remain the same for five to seven years or until the Shire is sufficiently recovered, as you say, and then it would change to seven percent at the end of that time period, or they could have the option of purchasing the property outright then. If we are to do that though it must be written in the agreement." His voice hardened suddenly. "I won't have anyone trying to take advantage of some kind of loophole in the paperwork."

"Well, fine. You're the owner. Do what you want," Largo said, a little surprised at the vehemence in the Baggins's tone.

Frodo flushed slightly and brushed a hand across his forehead. "Yes. Forgive me," he murmured, "It's just been such a mess trying to straighten everything out. I don't want that kind of trouble to even have a chance to find a foothold here again."

"I definitely agree there," Largo nodded. He took another mouthful of stuffing, glanced at the Baggins's half-full plate, and then up into his face. "You look sick," he said bluntly, noting the pained look in his comrade's eyes.

Frodo shook his head. "No, I'm just cold. Please excuse me for a moment." He began to get up from the table.

"Cold?" Largo exclaimed, "It's Thrimidge and we're sitting next to the fire! How can you possibly be cold?"

The Baggins made no answer, but made his way towards the innkeeper's counter. Largo shrugged and returned his attention to his meal, plotting how to broach the next subject.

When Frodo returned to the table he brought with him a steaming cup of tea which he cupped his hands around as if trying to warm himself. Largo's eyebrow's shot up to his hairline, but he refrained from commenting. The Baggins gingerly sat back down, eyed his comrade's plate, and frowned.

"How many more properties do we need to visit yet today?"

"Two more fields and a smial," Largo answered. "Fortunately, they're all right next to each other. We should make home before seven this time."

Frodo gave him a small smile and Largo eyed him suspiciously. "Are you sure you're feeling well?"

Frodo straightened up. "Of course I'm certain," he retorted. "I'm just a little tired, that's all. How many do we have left altogether?"

Ah, just the lead-in Largo was looking for. "Mmm, including today's tally," he did a hasty estimation in his mind, "about twenty-three."

"So, twenty more after today."

"Yes, hopefully. And several of them are actually near the Hobbiton/Bywater area."

Frodo made no reply.

Largo growled inwardly. Apparently the Baggins wasn't feeling very helpful. Outwardly, however, he said, "I think that there's about seven or eight of them. That's why I told you that we'd only be here for about a week."

Frodo began nodding thoughtfully. "Yes, and I do need to be back by next Trewsday, so I hope that you're right."

Largo frowned. "Why?"

"I have some obligations in Michel Delving to fulfil."

Ah, yes. Sometimes it was a little difficult to remember that this soft-spoken, stubborn hobbit was practically the mayor. "Perhaps we could stop by there on the way back to Hobbiton."

Frodo gave him an odd look. "We?"

Ah, now _this_ would be the tricky part. Largo affected his best official yet ingratiating tone and replied, "Why, yes. As Lobelia's barrister I am under legal obligation to show you all of her properties. In this case that will include two smials in Hobbiton, five in Bywater, including the Sackville-Bagginses own home, and one near Frogmorton. Therefore, once we are finished here I need to accompany you back to Hobbiton."

"I see." The Baggins regarded him with a measure of annoyance for a few minutes, then said, "You knew about this Sterday, did you not?"

Largo felt a bit uncomfortable under the Baggins's gaze. "Well, yes, of course I did," he blustered. "I've been aware of all of these properties for ten years, when Lobelia first contracted my services."

"Why in Middle Earth didn't you tell me then?" Frodo demanded. "I could have asked Sam to start preparing a guest room right away. Now, I'll have to write him a letter."

"Hm? What's that?" Largo tried to act nonchalant. Was this going to be easier than he thought?

The Baggins gave him another annoyed look, not fooled by Largo's careless attitude and returned, "If you are forced to travel to Hobbiton on my account then the very least that I can do is put you up until we conclude our business. That is, of course, unless you object to staying at Bag End with Sam, Rose, and myself." He eyed Largo as if he expected this news to change everything. Largo, on the other hand was struggling to keep his expression neutral, his emotions were so torn between triumph and shock. He had heard, of course, of the Shire-famous Baggins hospitality, but hadn't expected it to be offered so readily.

"No, no," he finally said, "Bag End will be fine. It's just a little unexpected. I had thought to stay at the Green Dragon, a good inn by all accounts, but if you truly want to put me up-"

"I do," Frodo answered firmly."

"Then I will certainly take you up on that offer," Largo affirmed. "I do thank you for the kindness," he added in polite hobbit form, getting up and bowing as was proper.

To his surprise Frodo's cheeks flushed scarlet. "You are most graciously welcome in my home," he responded correctly, adding, "Now, for goodness sake, sit back down."

"What?" Largo was puzzled, but he resumed his chair.

"I'm sorry," Frodo murmured, "I just...don't want anyone to notice me," he finished lamely.

Largo gave him a look and then chuckled in a friendly manner. "You're an odd duck, Baggins," he smiled.

The other hobbit gave Largo a hard look for a few minutes, and then said quietly, "Thank you."

They regarded each other for another minute and then Largo looked down and resumed eating his lunch. The Baggins watched him for another minute and then quietly began eating his as well. After about five minutes had passed Largo felt that it was time to broach one last subject. After all, his plate was nearly empty, and watching his companion eat he had a good feeling that as soon as he finished Frodo would be ready to leave also.

"There may be one slight hitch in our plans."

Frodo paused with the fork halfway to his mouth and looked up. "Oh?"

"Yes. You see, I _had_ planned on bringing Belle with me."

The Baggins put down his forkful. "I see," he said. "Do you mind if I ask why?"

Largo began rubbing his thumb across his fingers in a nervous manner. This had to work. "Oh," he said, again trying to sound nonchalant, "several reasons really. Belle's been wanting to go for some time. I think that she wants to do some shopping or some such thing in Bywater. And she's heard the rumour of the golden tree and wants to see if it's true, and things of that nature, I'm sure. And if we did stop by Michel Delving I'll wager that she'd love to visit the markets there, as well..." he drifted to a halt. The Baggins was looking at him _that_ way again. Largo felt as if every thought in his head was exposed.

"And why do _you_ wish for her to come?" came the quiet rejoiner.

Largo flushed and wondered if maybe Frodo's sight was as sharp as his hearing. "I don't want her to be alone," he admitted. It was true, he didn't - either next week or the rest of her life. Frodo was still looking at him and he felt compelled to continue. "Sometimes I'll wake up in the night thinking that those Ruffians are in her room. I know that they're gone, but I'm still scared for her."

That keen gaze softened. "Do you check on her?"

Largo snorted softly. "Every time. I know every squeak in the floor of her room I've examined it so many times. There's never anyone there, but that doesn't calm me when I first wake. I have to _see_ that she's safe." He gave Frodo a shame-faced smile. "Pretty foolish, isn't it?"

"No," was the decisive answer, "I don't find it foolish at all." The Baggins was rubbing his necklace between his fingers again.

Largo was surprised and a bit angry that he had admitted such a thing to Frodo Baggins of all people. Especially when he hadn't even told his sister.

"You can't tell Belle about that, do you hear," he warned.

The Baggins's eyebrows rose to the roots of his hair. "Certainly not," he agreed coolly, "just as you can't tell Sam about _my_ dream."

"What? Your dream?" Largo snorted. "I don't know two coppers worth about your dream; just that it scared us half to death."

"Nevertheless you can't tell Sam about it," Frodo insisted. "It's over and I want to forget it."

"Fine. He'll hear no word from me."

Frodo let out a quiet huff. "And Miss Bracegirdle shall hear no word from me."

"Good." Largo was not about to admit how relieved he felt. Not to a Baggins, that was certain. He eyed his companion. "So, you _don't_ mind if Belle comes?" he ventured.

Frodo smiled at him. To Largo's surprise it was a rather understanding smile, although a little sad. "If you truly feel that concerned about your sister, then you may certainly bring her." He glanced down at Largo's plate and added, "If you are finished eating then may we go please? I have a rather lengthy letter to write tonight, and I should like to return to Green Hill as soon as possible."

Largo glanced down as well. He had three bites left, and hurriedly finished them. He noticed the Baggins pocketing his uneaten sweet rolls and cheese and hastily did the same.

"Afters?" he queried.

"That's the plan," Frodo answered. "Shall we be off?"

-o-o-o-

Shire Translations

Thrimidge - May

Trewsday - Tuesday

Sterday - Saturday

A/N: Largo is not calling Frodo 'the Baggins' out of spite, except perhaps twice. As the oldest living male of the Baggins family Frodo is the head of the family and the keeper of the genealogy books, etc. Hence the respectful title 'the Baggins.'


	8. 7 Trewsday

Frodo's song at the end is dedicated to my cousins Emmy and Tam.

**7. Trewsday**

As far as Belle was concerned Monday was quite uneventful and '_most_ uninformative,' as Aunt Lobelia used to say. The two gentlehobbits returned to the smial by six o'clock, and then Largo spent the meal complaining about the price a smial had been given, Frodo ate only one plateful and a bowl of soup, and Belle felt like she was pulling eye-teeth to make any kind of a conversation. Halfway through the meal Largo mentioned that Frodo had offered to let them both stay in Bag End when they went to Hobbiton next week. Naturally she had agreed immediately, even to the ridiculous condition that they were not to treat 'Sam' and 'Rose' as servants (even though of course they were). She _had_ hoped to spend the rest of the evening talking about the upcoming trip and learning about Bag End and its occupant, but instead Frodo purposely steered the conversation to any topic other than himself or his home. When he excused himself around eight o'clock to go write a letter she wanted to smash her head against the garden wall. Instead, she took her complaints to Largo, who listened with only half an ear as he always did. By the time she turned in for the night she was almost begging for something different to happen tomorrow.

The night slipped by peacefully and Trewsday morning dawned bright and clear. The hobbits left once again at quarter-til seven, but this time they were home by half-past five. She had given Largo a surprised look and her brother had snapped, "Ask _him_." (jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at Frodo, who was silently retreating towards his room.) "He's the one with the headache." The meal had been quiet, and a very disgruntled Belle noted testily that Frodo didn't seem to be particularly hungry that evendim. Frodo, who had forced himself through his soup and was now picking at his potatoes and asparagus, flushed slightly and began jabbing at the baked ham, but precious little of it seemed to find the path to his mouth. He looked even more pale than usual this evendim, and Belle's thoughts involuntarily flew to the letter she'd burnt. _Please don't plague him about eating, and don't fix anything terribly rich._ She found herself reluctantly admitting that maybe 'S. Gamgee' did know a little about taking care of his master. She found herself wishing that she hadn't burnt up the letter. _What else did it say, something about putting lavender in the bath? Or was it 'lavender tea if he didn't feel well'..._

After Largo excused himself Belle went to her room to fetch the little flute and the gloves that Frodo had given her for his thirty-third birthday, in hopes that he would recognise her. She re-entered the dining room with a coy smile on her face and then froze. Her guest was gone. She laid her mementos on the table and began hunting for him. She searched both parlours, the dining room, his bedroom, Largo's study, she even poked about the gardens. Nothing. He seemed to have well and truly vanished. The memory of the mysterious doings of Mad Baggins' eleventy-first birthday popped into her head and she sat down with a thump on the passage floor, her mind racing. Then she heard a fair tenor voice faintly singing an old childhood nursery song. Curious, she got up and followed the voice... two rooms down to the kitchen.

Frodo Baggins stood with his back to her, facing the window overlooking the garden. His arms were plunged into soapy water up to his elbows as he vigorously scrubbed at a plate, singing in a soft voice. A fresh pot of water was heating on the stove in preparation for the next load of dishes, and already there was a good-sized pile of wet but clean plates and pans gathering next to him. She stepped out of the shadows of the passage and he froze.

_Well, the element of surprise is definitely gone_.

"What are you doing, Mr Baggins?"

He turned to face her, the dripping hands and the large white dish towel which he had tied around his waist contrasting strongly with his look of sober politeness. She struggled to keep snickering out loud. "I am washing dishes, Miss Bracegirdle," he answered.

"Why, if I may ask so foolish a question?"

"Because they need doing and because I need something to do." He nodded politely and turned back to his dish-pan.

"I see," Belle murmured. She cocked her head at him for a moment, and then fetched a dish towel from the linen drawer. Frodo was silent as she began to bustle about, drying and putting away dishes. He only threw a quick look at her over his shoulder once when Belle dropped a pan, and barely looked up from the sink, except to add more dishes to it. Belle stole quick looks at him as she dried and noted the lines in his face and his furrowed brow.

"Do you still have a headache?" she asked.

He gave her a puzzled glance. "No."

"You look a bit...well, I don't know. Are you ill?"

"No, ma'am."

She gave him an appraising look. "Are you mourning Aunt Lobelia?"

For a moment there was a flicker of something in his eye, but then it was gone.

"No."

"Yes, you are."

If a look could be sardonic it was the look that Frodo gave her. "You know me that well, do you?" He wiped his hands on his dish-towel apron and began gathering another load of pans. "Very well, Miss Bracegirdle, as you wish."

Belle winced inwardly, but pushed ahead. "What's wrong then?"

He refused to look at her. "What makes you think that anything is wrong?"

She gave him a look. "Shall I list the ways alphabetically, or in the order that I first noticed them?"

He shot her a brief glare but made no answer.

Belle had to roll her eyes at his obstinance. "Fine," she snapped. "First of all you ate next to nothing at supper, instead stirring your meal into mush; you've been abnormally quiet since you came home; you look positively ill; you're standing in my kitchen _washing dishes_-"

"Stars above!" Frodo threw up his hands, accidentally showering Belle with water. "You're as bad as Merry!" He again returned to his dishpan. "I am _fine_, Miss Bracegirdle."

With a frown Belle dried herself. "That's why you're in here, isn't it? You didn't want me to see this." Belle thought that she understood now, but something didn't quite add up. "But if something is bothering you, isn't it best to get it out in the open where it can't plague you any longer?"

Frodo's eyebrows rose alarmingly. "That's what they told you, is it? he muttered at the dishwater. "Forgive the observation, but I don't believe that it's any of your business."

The room fell silent, with only the clatter of pans to break up the tense atmosphere.

Belle mentally kicked herself for letting her temper build such a wall between them and wondered what she could do now. Searching her mind she suddenly remembered an overheard conversation. "Why, today is Trewsday, isn't it?"

His shoulders moved in a deep but silent sigh. "Yes, Miss Bracegirdle."

She frowned thoughtfully. "Do you mind if I ask what happened?"

Frodo gave her a rather vexed look. "I beg your pardon?"

_Hmm. That mask of politeness finally seems to be slipping._ She wondered whether the look was for her, or whatever was bothering him. "Forty years ago today," she said clearly.

Frodo froze for a moment, and then his hands flew out of the dishwater sending water droplets spraying everywhere again. Belle started back, afraid that he was about strike her, but instead he grabbed the jewel on his necklace, hastily turning away.

"Excuse me," he growled, and flew out of the kitchen, tugging at the knot of the towel around his waist with his free hand in an attempt to undo the makeshift apron.

Belle stood astonished for a minute until the thump of the front door roused her. She wasn't about to lose her quarry _this_ time, regardless of how badly he tried to scare her. She followed.

-fjfjfjfjf-

Outside the sky was stained with the flaming colours of the onset of evendim. The pinks of the heavens were the perfect frame for the darkening silhouettes of the old trees, their tops now turned to gold by the rays of the setting sun. Belle rapidly cast about for a glimpse of her almost-betrothed and noticed a dark-haired figure sitting on the side garden gate with his back to her. Stealthily she approached.

As she drew nearer she heard him softly crooning to himself, but the closer she drew the less intelligent the words became.

_"'__-thon sí nef aearon!_

_Le nallon sí vanwa di'-nuin!_

_A tíro nin, Fanuilos!' "_

"Frodo?"

The hobbit paused and mumbled wearily to himself, "Just. Let. Me be."

"No," Belle said flatly. "I'm worried about you."

If he was surprised to be overheard he didn't show it. "What do you hope to gain by pursuing me?" he asked, this time in a more audible tone.

Belle looked at his stiff back, his firm gaze towards the darkening Eastern horizon, his entire attitude of rigid displeasure...

"Nothing," she answered softly.

Frodo slowly exhaled and then said quietly, "Well, it shouldn't be too difficult to appease you then."

Unsure of what to say Belle came to stand by him (albeit a few feet away) and leaned across the fence, gazing Eastward with him. After a few silent minutes she ventured to speak.

"Frodo...about that letter of yours-"

Frodo stiffened visibly.

"-I am truly sorry for what happened with it." He said nothing, so she continued miserably, "I - I _did_ know that it was yours. I saw it fall out of your pocket. I'd been watching you write...and I was curious... That's when I overheard you saying what you did about 'forty years ago today.' I didn't mean to," she added hastily as he finally turned to look at her -with an intensity in those blue eyes that reminded her of his wrath Sterday night. She offered him a feeble smile. "You see, I have a problem similar to yours."

"And what might that be?" he asked quietly.

She swallowed hard. "I have extremely sharp hearing also. In fact, before I met you I thought that _I_ had the best hearing in the Shire. I can't hear hobbit footsteps," here she gave him a quick smile which he didn't return, "but it _is_ good enough that I heard you singing from the passage."

The Master of Bag End grew very still, his only comment being, "I see."

"Anyway," Belle continued, tugging nervously at her left earlobe, "I took your letter and read it, and it made me so angry that I gave it to Largo. I never should have done it. I-" she choked a bit on the words and looked at the ground, "-I shouldn't have even taken it, and I am truly sorry for - for everything."

Frodo said nothing for what felt several hours. Belle dared a glance up and saw that he was again gazing motionlessly at the horizon. Her curiosity piqued, she watched him in silence. The sun sank lower.

Abruptly Frodo swung around to face her, a queer light in his strange eyes and an earnest look on his face, but his tone was calm enough as he asked, "Do you have a river or a brook anywhere on your property?"

Belle blinked. Hesitantly she answered, "Well, we have a stream on the far boundary."

"Would you take me there?" When she still hesitated he added softly, "Please?"

Belle's resistance melted. How often had Frodo Baggins asked her for something? "Of course," she smiled.

-fjfjfjfjf-

The little stream was only a short walk across two fields and it didn't take long for the pair to reach the beltline of trees surrounding it. When they were only a few yards from the trees Frodo stopped abruptly. Puzzled, Belle stopped as well.

"Is it right inside those trees?" Frodo asked.

"Yes," Belle affirmed.

Frodo gave her a courteous bow and said, "Thank you for bringing me, Miss Bracegirdle. You needn't wait for me. I can find my own way back."

Belle raised an eyebrow. "Wait? I'm coming with you."

A look of pain briefly flitted across Frodo's face. "Miss Bracegirdle, I would prefer to have some privacy this evendim-"

"And you shall have it," Belle interrupted. "I'll keep quiet, and I'll never breathe a word of this to anyone, I swear, but I won't leave you down here alone with night coming on and foxes roaming about."

"Foxes?" Frodo chuckled bitterly. "Miss Bracegirdle, I am a fully grown hobbit, not a faunt. I sincerely doubt that a fox is going to give me much trouble."

"Nevertheless, I'm staying," Belle insisted.

"Miss Bracegirdle-" Frodo quickly checked whatever he had intended to say and instead turned to look at the setting sun. The golden rays were now peeping through the trees. Evendim was fast becoming night. With a sigh and a frown he turned back to her.

"If you insist on coming, then I ask that you keep your word and never speak of this to anyone."

"As you wish," she agreed, parroting back his previous reply.

He raised an eyebrow at her but made no comment and plunged into the trees, Belle right on his heels.

The light was already rather dim under the canopy of leaves, but here and there golden shafts of light still shot through the brushy tangle. Frodo paused for a moment, presumably to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark, and then resolutely moved towards to the stream. At the bank's edge he paused, and then began removing his jacket.

"Do you know how deep the water is?" he asked, folding up the jacket and laying it on the bank. Belle plumped down next to it and eyed the water critically.

"Well, where you're standing I think that it's...mm, probably knee-deep on me."

Frodo nodded and, after folding up the waistcoat he had just removed, moved to the bank edge and began rolling up the legs of his breeches to his thighs. Belle watched in fascination. "Are you going swimming?"

He shook his head and sat down on the grass.

"I was only wondering because if you were the water gets deeper only a little further downstream."

"Thank you, but this will be fine." So saying he withdrew a piece of paper from his breeches pocket.

Belle felt the tips of her ears grow warm. "The letter," she breathed.

Frodo shot her a look, but said nothing and began folding the letter into...

"Is that a cup?"

Frodo shook his head solemnly. "A boat."

That silenced Belle, and she watched as Frodo waded out to the middle of the stream. He held the little boat close with one hand as he trailed the other through the water, sometimes throwing a handful of drops into the air and watching them turn into glistening jewels before plunging back into the water with soft plops. He was murmuring softly to himself, but she couldn't catch any words. He wiped his face on his arm and Belle realised with a start that he was crying. This continued for a few minutes with Belle only catching a word here and there. Then Frodo carefully -almost reverently, Belle thought- smoothed all of the excess wrinkles out of the boat, ran a finger around the rim, and then placed it in the water. The laughing stream quickly whisked it away, bubbling merrily as the little craft manoeuvred the rocks and rills, speeding away from the two hobbits.

"How long, I wonder," Belle heard Frodo say, and then the rest was lost in a murmuring tone. He turned and sloshed back towards her. Plopping down on the edge of the bank he gazed blankly at the water, cradling one knee against his chest as he dangled his other leg in the water. Belle cautiously drew closer until she sat beside him. Both were silent for some time. Finally Belle could stand it no longer.

"If you don't mind my asking, why did you do that?"

Judging by the start that he gave he had completely forgotten that she was there. For just a moment as he turned towards her he looked...frightened, maybe? Then it was gone, replaced with that wary politeness that he seemed to assume whenever he was around her.

"I'm sorry," he apologised. "I'm afraid that my mind was elsewhere. What did you say?"

Belle smiled. "I was wondering why you did that with the letter.

Even in the dim light she saw him pale -except his cheeks, which had probably gone that lovely shade of embarrassed pink that he _so_ easily assumed. Belle stifled a giggle.

"It's just an old tradition of mine," he hastily answered. "Nothing important."

"You're crying," she observed. She brushed a gentle hand across his face, wiping at the tears. He shuddered slightly under her touch and pulled back. She allowed him to go.

For the first time they had arrived at the stream Frodo seemed to take notice of their surroundings. To Belle's amusement he grew even paler as he realised where they were -and doubtless that they were alone together.

"Are you alright?" she grinned.

"I'm fine," he answered automatically. There was a moments hesitation as he looked around before adding, "However, I do think it time that we returned to the smial."

"Well, lead the way," she teased.

Frodo looked at her and then rose to his feet, looking around thoughtfully.

Still grinning, Belle followed his example. "The backs of your legs are covered in mud," she observed.

"Are they?" Frodo murmured, brushing at it absent-mindedly as he gazed towards the trees.

"Here, let me get that," Belle offered. She pulled out her handkerchief and began rubbing at the back of his thighs, admittedly enjoying the sensation of his firm flesh under her fingers. Frodo was still for a moment, but then gave a strangled cry and leaped away. Startled, she looked up at him. He stared back with wide eyes, breathing hard and grabbing at his chest.

"Don't touch me again!" he gasped, struggling to master his breathing.

"Yes, sir," Belle snapped back automatically, feeling slightly stunned. "Are you alright?"

He breathed a few more times and then said in a much calmer tone, "Yes, I'm fine. You merely startled me, that's all." The sound of a smile crept into his voice. "Just let the mud be. Doubtless I shall need a bath once we return anyway."

"Doubtless," she agreed as she rose to her feet, her own smile back. Frodo hastily unrolled his breeches and picked up his jacket and waistcoat.

"Come on then," he said. "Let's get back to the smial."

-fjfjfjfjf-

"So..." Belle ventured as they began crossing the first field, "what is this tradition of yours?"

"You already saw it," was the quiet answer.

Belle immediately had to stifle the impatience building inside her. "Yes, I know" she said, trying to keep her tone friendly and inquisitive. "You send little letter-boats down the stream. But why? Is there some significance behind it, or do you just do it, or is it some sort of Bucklander tradition?"

"It's _my_ tradition," Frodo said sharply. He was silent for a moment and then said, "It's just something that I do to honour my parents' memory on the anniversary of their deaths. I will write a letter to them and send it down the Brandywine, or whatever body of running water happens to be most convenient."

_Their deaths?_ No, no, no, she had _not_ just intruded on his grief again, had she?

"How long ago was it?" she ventured.

He sighed softly. "Forty years."

Belle could feel her ears -no, her whole face- burning.

"How old were you?"

A pause. "Eleven."

"I'm so sorry," she murmured. "I can't imagine..." her voice trailed away. The pair were silent for a few moments, and then Belle whispered, "What were they like?"

He didn't answer and the two tramped on through the quickly darkening night. Just as they were reaching the garden he said, "Tall."

Belle, who had been pursuing her own thoughts, frowned up at him. "What?"

"They were tall," he repeated. "My father was taller than most hobbits, by about three inches, and my mother wasn't much shorter than he."

"Hmm." Belle wondered silently if there was a reason behind his comment.

Frodo moved to the garden fence and leaned heavily against it, gazing at the smial. "Strong, too," he added. "My father was a wright, and I often saw him heft chests and shelves all by himself in the woodshop."

Belle joined him at the fence. Well, if he wanted to talk, who was she to stop him? "Who do you favour?"

There was a slight snort. "My mother. My father was properly built, and he had light brown hair and keen grey eyes. I didn't inherit a thing from him beyond my height." His voice grew soft. "Mum had the dark hair and slight build. Dad used to wrap an arm around her waist and hold her close to him, growling that he'd never let go, no matter how much she squirmed." He chuckled hollowly. "He always tried to sound gruff and terrible, the way that we thought orcs did, but he meant every word."

"He could wrap _one_ arm around her waist?" Belle exclaimed. "She _must_ have been thin."

He gave another slight snort -or perhaps a snicker? "Well, it wasn't quite all the way around."

"Still, one arm is one arm!" Belle insisted. "Do your eyes come from your mum?"

There was a pause. "Yes."

Belle caught an undertow of sadness in the word and glanced up at him. "Do you still miss them?"

Frodo hesitated. "A little," he admitted.

She nodded slowly. "Me too." As he turned towards her she said softly, "Did I tell you about my mother?"

"You mentioned that you were twenty-five when - you lost her," he answered.

Belle nodded solemnly, but then realised that he couldn't see it and said, "Yes, I was. She was lovely. She always seemed to have an answer to every problem and could comfort every hurt. Sometimes I miss her so badly. Especially her council." She gave him a lopsided grin, invisible in the dark, "She was often the only one who could curb me when I became little too...interested in something."

"Ah, yes. The responsible hobbit mother," Frodo said knowingly. "We certainly can't have our little ones getting too curious, can we?" He chuckled and looked back at the smial. "My blessings on that dear hobbitess," he teased.

"Ha, ha," Belle retorted. "And just _what_ did your mother teach _you_ on that subject, Mister Curious-About-Elves?"

"Oh, you heard that, did you?" he muttered -although the sound of a smile belied the impolite words. "Dear Lobelia. My mother taught me _nothing_ on that subject, ma'am. I was innately curious from birth, according to my relatives, and if my mother did anything she encouraged me."

"Encouraged?" Belle was surprised. Even with as odd as Master Baggins was she never would have traced it to his mother. Of course, she _was_ a Bucklander-

"Oh, yes. I would ask all manner of questions and she -and my father- would always do their best to answer me, even referring me to Uncle Bilbo if they didn't know the answer."

"It sounds lovely," Belle murmured. As his head turned towards her she hastily added, "For you, I mean. _I_ was given a proper education."

"Naturally," he murmured.

"Why, everything that I know I learned from my mum." _And Aunt Lobelia,_ she added mentally, _but given your reaction I'm not telling _you_ that_. "My father might have taught me reading and writing, but she was the one who taught me etiquette and running a smial, and how to cook for a household of hungry lads." Her tone grew wistful. "She was a wonderful cook, could make anything out of the simplest ingredients. If you gave her nothing but a potato and an onion she'd find a snip of this and a bit of that, and she could turn it into a dish worthy of the Thain. She taught me everything I know about cooking..." her voice trailed off as she swallowed back tears. Sometimes the pain seemed so close, as if it had happened yesterday.

"My mother was like that too," Frodo said softly. "Give her a bit of worsted and she could turn out an entire winter's wardrobe."

"An expert knitter, then?"

Frodo shook his head. "A seamstress would be more accurate. Knitting, sewing, crochet, embroidery, spinning, even a little weaving; practically the only thing that she didn't do was shear the sheep - and she would have done that too if we would have had any." He chuckled. "She was an artist, especially her embroidery. I was a child, of course, but as far as I was concerned the only thing that bested my mother's embroidery was my father's carving."

"He could turn out anything too, am I right?" Belle guessed.

"Anything," Frodo agreed confidently. "Whether it was large or small, decorative or utilitarian, he could make it, even something as tiny as a ring, and he always turned it into a work of art. He even made her promise gift."

Belle's eyebrows rose to the roots of her hair. "What was it?"

"A wooden heart on a silver chain. He carved ivy leaves and primula on it and set an emerald in the middle. She wore it all the time."

Belle cast her mind about for something polite to say and finally settled on, "It sounds very nice." Not exactly what she would have expected from a respectable Baggins with a pocketful of gold, but it did sound like a very nice trinket.

The Baggins was speaking again. "What about your father?"

Belle smiled. "He was a barrister, just like Largo. When we were all younger Largo became fascinated by Father's job, for some unknown reason. The two of them used to pour over documents for hours at a time, looking for loopholes to fix or studying the correct wording. Gandy would join them from time to time, but he loved his sheep, and ended up being a shepherd with no ambition." Her tone grew soft. "Da was slightly disappointed in him, I think, but he died soon after Gandy came of age, and so he never really spoke of it."

Frodo's voice became soft also. "Might I ask how he died?" he murmured.

Belle's breath caught painfully for a moment. "It goes back to my mother," she answered. "You see, she died of a wasting disease. It consumed her for nearly two years before she finally subccumed, and it broke my father's heart when she went, I'm sure. He was never the same after her passing. Oh, he still loved us dearly and took great care of us, but he never laughed anymore, and rarely smiled. We all knew that he was only staying here for us. No one was surprised when we found him dead one morning two months after Gandis came of age." Belle could feel the tears building up inside even as she spoke. "He had the most peaceful smile on his face," she choked, "more peaceful than we had seen in a long time. Even the neighbours knew that he'd left to be with her-" she couldn't go on and buried her head in her arms.

After some time she realised that a hand was gently rubbing her back as Frodo's soft tenor voice sang a meaningless babble that was somehow comforting.

"What are you singing?" she snuffled.

"Shh, shhh," he soothed gently, and continued singing.

At the end he fell silent for a moment and then said, "That was an old song that some friends of mine taught me. It is a cry to Iluvatar and the Valar for the healing of wounds. Sometimes it helps to sing it "

Belle sniffed again and fumbled for a handkerchief. "What does it mean?" she asked weakly.

He slipped his own kerchief into her hand and she hastily dabbed at her face. "Well, this is just a rough translation," he smiled. He paused for a moment and then spoke in a low, almost reverent tone:

"_Oh, Iluvatar, the One who sees all, look on us now in our grief. We are wounded, Lord. We ache with the hurts of this world. Our loved ones are sundered from us, and the pain is yet great. We ask for the grace to bear it, for the strength to continue, and for the courage to move on. We thank You for the time which we had with them, brief as it was. We thank You for the precious memories we have of them. Our blessings on You, Iluvatar, for Your unfolding plan, which You bring to fruition in spite of us. Look on us, we cry!_

_"Námo, in whose keeping are the Halls of Mandos, look kindly on our loved ones. Give them succour and tend them gently if they be with you still. Speed them on to the Blessed Realm._

_"Vairë, weaver of all things in time, weave her story gently. She has suffered much in this world. May the weft not be so heavy against her._

_"Estë, healer, gentle Lady, bring healing to our souls._

_"Our grief is deep and enduring. Nienna, Lady of sorrows, teach us your lessons. Help us to learn endurance and pity. Turn our sorrows to wisdom and hope._

_Hear our cry!"_

He fell silent.

Strangely comforted by his well-meaning efforts she turned towards him and saw that he was gazing at the stars. She gently touched his shoulder and he turned towards her. "Are you alright?" she asked.

Frodo was barely audible as he admitted in a tiny voice, "For some reason...it hurts more this year than it has for a long time."

"Oh, lad," Belle murmured, reminded so much of her brother Gandis. He had taken their parents' deaths hardest of any of the siblings.

Frodo must have heard that, for he shook himself (throwing off her hand in the process) and said, "Come, Miss Bracegirdle. It's time we returned to the smial."

_Miss Bracegirdle_. If there was one thing Frodo did that she was tired of it was being called 'Miss Bracegirdle.'

"It's Thrimidge."

Frodo withdrew the 'starlight' from his pocket and cupped it carefully in his hand. "We wouldn't want to trip," he said by way of explanation.

"Frodo," Belle tried again, "it's Thrimidge."

Frodo turned to her with a puzzled expression. "Yes, it is," he agreed cautiously.

Belle shook her head. "No, my _name_ is Thrimidge." He frowned at her in puzzlement and she grinned. "One more secret for this strange night. My full name is Thrimidge Bell Bracegirdle. Thrimidge bells were my mother's favourite flowers, so when she finally had a lass she gave me the name Thrimidge Bell."

"I see," Frodo nodded.

"Not entirely, you don't," Belle said. "You see, I hated my name. Can you imagine what it's like to have to introduce yourself as a month?" Her voice took on a mocking tone. " 'Hello, I'm Thrimidge. No, I'm named for the flower, not the month.' You might as well be named 'Rethe,' or 'Halimath,' or 'Forelithe!' " Even after all these years she could still get worked up about her name. Forcing herself to breathe (and unconsciously imitating Frodo) she made herself calm down. "So when I was nine I changed my name to Belle, putting an e on the end so that it didn't seem so common, and refused to answer to Thrimidge."

Frodo nodded, a hint of sternness hardening his blue eyes.

"However," Belle continued, "if you dislike Belle so much you may call me Thrimidge."

He frowned. "I never said that I didn't like your name."

"You never call me by it," she pointed out. "It's always 'Miss Bracegirdle,' and truthfully, I would prefer Thrimidge to my last name." She glanced at him sideways. "Unless, of course, you would rather not be friends?"

She could see it in his eyes. She had him in a corner.

"Perhaps, given time, we could be," he hazarded.

"Well, don't you two look cosy," Largo snapped, stepping out of the shadows. The pair jumped. "Have you any idea what time it is?" he continued. "If you wish to keep my sister out this long, Baggins, you'd best either have a good excuse or be prepared to stand before the family heads tomorrow."

"What's the time?" Frodo wondered.

"Nearly eleven."

"Gracious!" Belle exclaimed. "Only eleven? What would you have done if we stayed out later?"

"Married the pair of you tomorrow. I just told you that."

"We were just turning in, Mr Bracegirdle," Frodo said quietly. "There's no need for such a marriage."

Largo turned an irate eye on him. "I'm not too sure of that, _Master_ Baggins."

"I am," Frodo returned firmly. He turned to Belle. "Might I escort you to the door, Miss -Belle?"

Belle smiled at the hesitation, but before she could answer Largo snapped, "No. I need to speak with her alone. Good night, Mr Baggins." He laid a protective hand on Belle's arm, compelling her to remain by his side.

"As you wish, Mr Bracegirdle," Frodo returned quietly. "Goodnight to the both of you."

They both waited until the light of Frodo's 'star-bottle' disappeared into the smial and then Largo received a sharp elbow in his ribs.

"Ow!" he grunted. "What was that about?"

"I might ask you the same thing," she hissed. "What were you thinking? He asked to escort me to the door! That would have been a start at least."

"We can't make it too easy," he retorted, also in a low tone just in case. "He thinks that I don't approve now, so he will either step up his advances just to irritate me, or he will back off. You might say that I'm testing the water."

Belle opened her mouth but Largo continued. "And I must add, _Miss_ Bracegirdle, that I do _not_ approve of you running about after dark with him. We do have a reputation to keep up, you know. Am I going to have to lock the stable at night?"

"Of course not," she answered frostily. "Such a thought never entered my mind, and I am _appalled_ that it entered yours."

"Bosh," Largo snorted. "We both know that's how Aunt Beila landed a Baggins, _and _we both know that you would do almost anything to land your own _fish_." He hissed the last word into her ear.

"Shut up!"

"I mean it, Belle. I don't want you out here after dark. Do your courting in the parlour."

"I never would have learned anything in the parlour," she snapped. "Out here at least he was comfortable enough to talk about his parents. We just spent the last hour actually talking. Not me asking questions and him answering; he was _volunteering information_. Do you realise how unheard of that seems to be?"

"I don't care. What if that Lilla had seen you? Or worse, Ard Brownwater?"

"Lilla wouldn't be caught dead outside after supper, and everyone would suppose that Ardlo was seeing ale dreams again."

Largo was insistent. "Some wouldn't. And your reputation would be ruined. Try and be sensible for a minute, Belle."

Belle had heard enough. She pulled away from his grasp and said icily, "I am going to bed now. If you have anything more to say to me you'd best save it for the morning. Goodnight."

She breezed away, leaving Largo alone in the dark.

-o-o-o-

Translation:

_A Elbereth Gilthoniel_

O Elbereth Star-kindler

_O menel palan-díriel,_

from heaven gazing afar,

_Le linnathon sí nef aearon!_

I sing to you here beyond the great sea!

_Le nallon sí vanwa di'-nuin!_

to thee I cry now lost beneath the shadow!

_A tíro nin, Fanuilos!_

O look towards me, Everwhite!

-o-

wright - old English for carpenter

Thrimidge bells - hobbit for harebells

-o-o-o-

credits for the fox idea go to Dreamflower, and Lobelia's questionable methods of landing her husband belong to Larner.


	9. 8 Burning Glade

**8. Burning Glade**

24 Thrimidge, 1420 S.R.

" 'The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,' "

Largo groaned to himself. The Baggins was singing again. And not only was he singing; he was singing about roads and travelling. And at eight o'clock in the morning, too!

At least he appeared to have gotten over whatever was bothering him yesterday, Largo reflected. He wasn't moody or pensive; he was actually cheerful -which was good, but Largo wished that he would be a little more quiet in his good cheer.

The pair was riding down a small lane which wound its way through a copse, on their way to take a look at the Plumgrove farm, so named for the wild plum trees which grew all over the property. The Ruffians, rather surprisingly, hadn't touched many of the trees in these parts and Largo was hoping that this particular rent would be left as it currently stood. Generosity was all very well, but there was the Shire to think of, too. Fifty silvers a quarter would be a welcome addition to a coffer made up of twenties and thirties. And if the Baggins did make it less, then who was supposed to pick up the difference for the rebuilding? It already had to have cost a fortune taking care of Hobbiton, Bywater, and the Michel Delving area. Why, repairing damages for _Bag End_ alone had probably cost a fortune.

"Largo? What is that place?"

Largo looked up from his musings to see that Frodo had ridden up beside him and was gesturing towards a small glade one could see through a bare opening in the trees just the right of the road. Largo looked away quickly.

"That?" he shrugged, trying to sound casual. "That's the Burning Glade."

"What happened there?"

"Some of the Ruffians had a bonfire last Blotmath."

Frodo, who had been gazing fixedly at the glade now turned to Largo. "A bonfire?" he frowned.

Largo nodded. "Yes. They had some sort of party and were carrying on late into the night." It had been sheer nightmare. The party had started around ten, after curfew, so he and Belle had been trapped inside the smial —and by this time they knew that being Lotho's kin was not going to help them. They had barricaded every door and shutter that they could and spent the night crammed into the secret pantry. Belle had 'slept' in the farthest corner possible while Largo kept watch with the fire poker in one hand and a pitchfork in the other until the roaring laughter of the monsters finally died away. He hadn't meant to doze off, but he'd been awakened some time later by Belle, only to discover that he'd slept until quarter-after ten.

He shuddered as he thought of what could have happened to Belle thanks to his carelessness. Recalling his companion though he added, "Everyone was terrified of what would happen the next day, but thankfully they were all called to a battle near Sackville and never returned."

Frodo threw a glance back at the glade. "There isn't much growth there yet," he observed.

"No," Largo agreed, "but the Gardener never saw this spot."

"No?" Frodo seemed surprised and gave the glade one last thoughtful backward glance. "I would like to examine it more closely on our way back."

Largo shrugged. He had no particular wish to see it again. He'd been there when it was first discovered and had offered to help with the clean-up, but everyone had decided that if the Ruffians wanted that glade then no one was going to risk their wrath. And then the Captains had come through announcing their liberation, and the food waggons had followed soon after, and everyone seemed to forget about the hideous sounds that they had heard that Blotmath night. But if Frodo Baggins wanted to have a look then who was he to say no?

"Whatever you wish," he returned.

-fjfjfjfjf-

Much to Largo's surprise both the morning and afternoon passed fairly smoothly. They had managed to visit two more pipe-weed fields in addition to the large and sprawling Plumgrove and both fields had been deemed worthy of the Baggins' sixteen silver/fifteen percent rent. As for Plumgrove itself? Well, as far as Largo was concerned that had not been a success—it had been a triumph!

Not only had the Baggins left the quarterly let at fifty silvers, but he'd also managed to coax Farmer Sheaves, who currently lived there, into increase his 'landlord's share' to a full twenty percent. It hadn't taken that much to convince him either, which was incredible because everyone said that old miser Sheaves would pinch a copper until it squeaked.

Not for the first time that day Largo found himself shaking his head in wonder at the hobbit riding beside him.

Frodo caught sight of the motion and frowned. "What?"

"You," Largo answered with some amazement. "How did you that? Most people wouldn't have gotten that much out of old Sheaves in a week! _You_ had him in less than an hour."

Frodo shrugged and looked away. "I've found that folks are more than willing to help with the recovery in some small way, even if it means an increase in their rent. Someone just needs to sit down with them and explain what we are trying to do and why."

"Yes, but Sheaves?" Largo shook his head. "Let me tell you, he wouldn't have given me the time of day. Why, I could have 'explained' until I was blue in the face, and all he would have done was laugh." Frodo glanced at him warily and Largo frowned back thoughtfully. "You, on the other hand—"

"That may be the difference between what could be perceived as the greediness of a landlord and the privilege of helping with the restoration of the Shire," Frodo cut in smoothly.

Largo's frustration with the obtuseness of the Master of Bag End was mounting. "Did I say anything about greedy landlords?" he snapped. "I could have said the exact same words as you _a hundred times over_, and nobody would have listened." He gave his companion a sharp look. "Maybe _you_ just have the gift of a silver tongue."

Frodo's cheeks grew rather pink and Largo chuckled to himself. "Is that how you became mayor? Talked your way into it?"

The flush deepened. "I am not the mayor; I am only his deputy," Frodo retorted, "and to answer your question; no. I did not 'talk my way into it.' Mayor Whitfoot asked me to look after things for him while he recovers."

The emphasis on the word _mayor_ was not lost on Largo and he chuckled to himself. He was going to have to bait the Baggins a little more often; this was rather fun. "Well, with the way that things are going you'll put him out of a job at the Free Fair."

"I have no plans to run for mayor."

"You'll be a write-in then," Largo insisted. "Trust me. Once everyone hears of all your plans to help the Shire recover they won't be able to help but choose you."

Frodo's mouth set in a thin, tight line. Having made his point Largo fell silent and the pair rode on. Around the next corner they came to the crossroads. Frodo automatically slowed his pony and turned towards the right fork.

"Ho, wait up there," Largo said, feeling a trifle surprised. "Where are you going?"

Frodo reined in his lovely grey and looked back, looking rather surprised himself. "To the Burning Glade."

Oh, yes. Over the excitement of the day Largo had completely forgotten about that. He frowned. "I was hoping to visit one or two more fields today," he said. "After all, it's only about three o'clock; plenty of time to get them in and come back."

Frodo frowned as well. "And where would these fields be?" he queried.

"A few miles up the road. We'd make it there by four, you could look them over, and we'd be back home before six."

Frodo gazed up the road in the direction that Largo was pointing. "There by four; back by six," he mused. "And how much time would that leave to examine the glade?"

Largo gave him a blank look and Frodo eyed him coolly. "That's what I thought," he said. "How late did you say that you were willing to stay out without supper?"

Largo's look changed to one of alarm. "What do you mean?"

"I intend to visit the Burning Glade. Tonight. If you wish me to look at those fields then we shall have to resign ourselves to a late supper," the Baggins explained firmly. There was a stubbornness in his eye which Largo did not care for at all.

"And if I decide to go straight home?" he challenged.

"Then I shall go without you and we'll see if I can find my way back on my own," Frodo returned.

Largo scowled, wishing that he could blister the Baggins's ears right now. Unfortunately, swearing at your guest was not in the list of ways that one could express displeasure in the manners books.

"Come on then," he growled as he kicked his pony, Briar, into startled movement and turned the dun's head towards the Glade.

"Thank you," Frodo said as he turned his own pony to follow.

Largo just growled wordlessly under his breath.

They rode in silence to the glade and reined their ponies just outside the entrance. Largo watched in irritation as Frodo climbed off the grey and wrapped its reins loosely around a slim tree branch.

"That'll never hold," he muttered.

"It will hold him," Frodo said, rubbing the pony's nose gently. "Hey, Strider, hey," he murmured to the pony. "You'll stay for me, won't you, lad?" The pony whickered and nuzzled the hobbit's dark curls.

"I don't believe this," Largo mumbled under his breath. He gave Frodo a sceptical look. "You can just tell him to stay and he will?" he demanded.

Frodo smiled and shook his head. "He's Rohan bred," he answered. "They are the greatest horse-masters in Middle-Earth and they trained him well. If his reins are draped over something he is trained not to wander off. He's on alert nearly all of the time." Frodo's smile became sad. "Even little ponies are trained for war when you dwell under the Shadow. Ponies and children." He turned away and the pony began nudging and nuzzling him again.

Largo gave him an exasperated look as he climbed down from Briar. "Really?" he said. "Well, just out of curiosity, are you going to do whatever it is that you planned to do here?"

Frodo came out from behind his pony with a set look on his face. "Was this place anything before?" he asked.

Largo shook his head. "Just a nice place for a picnic," he answered. "We used to come here all the time when we were growing up." _Just get on with it so that we can go home!_ he growled inwardly. He didn't want to remember.

Frodo walked over to the entryway, where long ago someone had uprooted enough trees to leave an opening to the glade. He stopped short, surveying the mess, his face turning a horrid shade of white.

Largo tied Briar to a much sturdier limb and joined the _masterful_ Master of Bag End. He drew in a sharp breath at the sight. It was far worse than he had remembered. Gone were the tall, stately trees of picnic days, the familiar logs that they had spread about the open area for seats, the gentle, unbroken pool of soft grass. In their place, standing not fifteen feet from the two hobbits was a vast heap of logs and branches, broken down by time and by burning, thick ash and unburned bits of wood spreading out from it like a slowly spreading disease, choking the life out of the grass struggling to grow around it. In some places where the grass had been burned away it grew back thicker and more lush than ever, but in other places it pushed up limp and sparse from the charred ground. A twisted heap of wood sat haphazardly across the far entrance, looking as if a woodpile had vomited, and great rents had been torn through the ground at the far end. Largo felt sick.

Next to him he heard Frodo's breathing grow a little more pronounced and he glanced at his companion. The Baggins was gazing around the glade with a look of horror and sorrow, but also, Largo was startled to notice, recognition.

Frodo turned toward him. "Would you mind staying here while I have a look around?" he asked.

Largo gave him an incredulous look. "_I_ certainly don't intend to go in there," he snapped.

Frodo nodded slightly. "Right," he said, seeming to take the snapping in stride. He warily moved to the centre of the glade where he slowly turned in a circle as if looking at everything. Even from about forty feet away he looked ill.

"Are you all right?" Largo called, feeling a bit concerned.

"Stay there," came the firm answer. Frodo began making his way towards the bonfire area, but turned aside instead to examine some small, rather broken down trees near the outer edge of the glade. Largo watched first with interest and then incredulity as his companion stared at the trees, then dropped to the ground and began searching for something. There was a pause as he apparently found what he was looking for, and then he gazed up at the tree he was nearest. Struggling to his feet he stared a moment longer, and then, inexplicably, seized the stub of a torn-off branch and hoisted himself into the tree.

The poor tree had been so mutilated that one could scarcely call it a 'tree' any longer. The branches had been ruthlessly broken at queer angles, some of them removed altogether, and the top now sagged towards the ground, clinging to its former position by only a third of its trunk. It was here, about eight feet up, that Frodo stopped climbing. He was still for some time, looking at the jagged break, then he lowered himself a little and kicked off from the tree.

Largo felt his heart leap into his mouth at the sight of a hobbit, even the strange Frodo Baggins, dangling from a height like that with nothing beneath him to break his fall, however voluntarily. It simply wasn't natural. Frodo was clinging to the mangled limb with all of his strength, swinging back and forth silently. Almost against his will, Largo found himself racing to help the Baggins.

By the time he arrived Frodo had managed to catch hold of one of the stumpy branches with his toes and was breathlessly making his way down the tree. Largo caught him as he was fumbling for one last branch and tried to help him by wrapping his own arms around the Baggins and pulling him out of the tree.

The kick he received in return caused him to stumble and the two fell to the ground, Frodo still struggling in his grip. The weight of the Baggins landed heavily on his chest, knocking the breath out of him, and his vision blurred. He was vaguely aware that a heavy weight rolled off of his chest and that the sound of ragged breathing (at first close by his ear) rapidly died away.

When he came fully back to himself he found that he was still lying on his back in full daylight. He squinted against the sun's brilliance and slowly sat up. Only a few feet away a strange figure was picking through a pile of burnt logs and ash and such. He was an odd-looking chap; skinny, dark-haired.

He rubbed his head for a moment and then groaned. Baggins, of course! What had he hit his head on?

The Baggins must have heard the groan for he came and knelt by Largo's side.

"You all right?" he asked.

"What happened? Largo muttered.

A look of embarrassment came into Frodo's eyes. "I'm afraid that I fell on top of you when you tried to help me out of the tree."

Largo winced. "Well, that explains the chest," he mumbled.

Frodo's cheeks grew rather pink. "Here," he said, "lean against this tree for a bit. It might help."

Together the two managed to wriggle Largo into position so that he rested his back against the broken tree. Then Frodo began feeling Largo's head all over.

"Ow!" Largo grunted. "What are you about?"

"Stay still, please," Frodo commanded in that detached voice that healers and doctors used when examining a patient.

Grumblingly, Largo obliged. After a time Frodo ceased. "Well, that's a relief," he said. "You don't appear to be injured, although I'd have a healer take a look at you, just to be safe. I'm certainly not one," he added with a Wry smile.

"No, you aren't," Largo agreed. His eyes narrowed in remembrance. "Just what were you doing in that tree, anyway?" he demanded. "You looked perfectly mad."

Frodo's face had almost regained its natural colour, but at Largo's words it turned a ghostly white again and an odd look came into his eyes as if he was remembering something unpleasant, but he shrugged and then the look was gone —although his complexion retained its unnatural pallor. "I was measuring the distance to the ground," he said in an off-handed kind of way.

"Why?" Largo wondered, not quite prepared to believe this statement.

Frodo shook his head carelessly. "Just wondering how high it was," he answered.

Largo did not believe him for a minute; at least, not considering that look. "Did you find anything interesting in that ash pit?"

"Some buttons."

Ah, _this_ was interesting. "May I see them?"

The Baggins' voice became stern. "I left them there. We have no reason to disturb them at this time."

"Disturb _buttons_?" Largo was again incredulous. "Was there anything else in there?"

"It was a place of feasting and slaughter for the Ruffians," Frodo said sharply. "I'm sure there's more there. If you're well enough to question me then I shall assume that you're feeling better. Drink this." He handed Largo the water skin he always carried as they rode and gestured to the mash of splintered logs, broken boards, and what looked like wire directly across the glade from them. "I shall be over there if you need me."

"Why?" Largo queried again.

"I'm investigating," Frodo answered patiently. "Excuse me, please."

He rose to his feet and made his way cautiously towards the mess, sometimes pausing and examining the ground at his feet. Largo watched the entire procedure sceptically. Was the Baggins now a great tracker, too? He snorted derisively and devoted his attention to the water skin. Frodo had refilled it twice today —once as they were preparing to leave Plumgrove and once from the stream flowing across one corner of the last field that they had visited— but to Largo's surprise it was already more than half empty. He quietly drank about a quarter of what was left. By the time he finished that he felt well enough to stand again. The Baggins, on the other hand, was crawling around on his hands and knees in the dirt again.

_How very odd._ Largo watched him for another minute and then made his way over to the woodpile. When he arrived Frodo appeared to be tracing some kind of broken, weaving path, as if he were drunk. He would put his back to things, and look up —doubtless 'measuring' again—, and bend down, peering between a few oddly placed boards. His face was still that ghastly white, but another queer colour seemed to be gaining control —and not pink either. He was breathing hard and kept muttering things under his breath. The only word Largo could catch was, "No."

Largo approached as quietly as only a wary hobbit can. "Are you all right, Baggins?"

Frodo turned to face him, and Largo suddenly realised what colour his face was turning. Green. "Mr Bracegirdle," Frodo said rather breathlessly, "I believe that I'm ready to leave whenever you are."

"Just a moment," Largo nodded. "I want to have a look around here myself."

Frodo nodded, a queer look on his face. "Just - don't - touch anything," he managed.

Largo raised an eyebrow at him, but the Baggins only turned and slowly made his way towards where they had left the ponies. Largo shook his head slowly at the departing figure, head bowed, grey-green cloak wrapped tightly about him as if it were the dead of Winter, and then turned to the woodpile.

His own investigation proved rather fruitless. There was a lot of wire twisted around the wood, and most of them had collapsed inward, giving the appearance of a woodpile, but one or two still stood, looking a bit like rather small chicken pens. In one of these he found a green hair ribbon, crumpled and trampled into the dirt. Shrugging, he pocketed it and went to find the Baggins.

Frodo was discovered on his knees and leaning heavily against a large oak, shoulders heaving. A pile of vomit lay to one side of the tree.

"Why?" Largo heard him choking. "To be taken as-" He twisted himself around the tree, retching again.

Largo waited until the bout had passed and then moved to Frodo's side. "Seen enough?" he queried casually.

A string of sheer nonsense, quiet but fervent, poured off of the hobbit's tongue. Once he finished he leaned against the tree again, clutching desperately at his necklace, tears silently tracing lines down his dusty, pale cheeks.

Largo's brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Care to repeat that in plain words?"

"Not really."

"Would you _like_ me to help you get on your pony?" Largo demanded.

Frodo was already trying to get to his feet, bracing himself against the trunk. "I-I wouldn't mind," he answered shakily.

-fjfjfjfjf-

Belle was more than a little surprised when the sound of the smial door being thrown open echoed down the passage and Largo's booming voice announced, "We're home!"

"So I hear, but why?" she demanded, leaving the ink pen where she dropped it on the kitchen table in her haste to reach the door. "It's only a little after four - ohhh." Her voice trailed away at the sight of Largo's strained face and Frodo's white one. Frodo offered her a small nod and made his way quietly down the passage to the room he slept in. Belle hurried to Largo's side.

"What's wrong?" she asked softly.

Largo shook his head and began hanging up his light cloak. "I have no idea," he returned. "I took him down to the Burning Glade and he was sick."

"Oh." Belle gave the retreating figure a motherly glance. "Poor dear."

"Poor dear my foot," Largo muttered under his breath. "He was acting like a mad thing out there."

"Mad?" Belle was sceptical.

"Climbing trees, digging through dirt, crying for no reason, vomiting," Largo ticked each ailment off with his fingers. "Yep, perfectly mad."

Belle gave him a cool look. "Quite the tale."

Largo gave her a bewildered one in return. "I'm blessed if I can figure him out, Belle. I looked the place over and didn't see anything that would make someone act like that. And he won't answer my questions, either. I _did_ try, sis," he added a bit emphatically.

Belle sighed. Typical Baggins, or at least Frodo, it seemed. _Would he stay this secretive if they married? _For a moment the question briefly flashed across her mind (a worrisome thought, to be sure), and then it was gone. "Well, maybe I can get something out of him while I try to get him to eat."

"Huh," Largo snorted. "Bet he won't."

"Well, I can still try," Belle returned sharply. "You'll have to fend for yourself for tea. I thought that I would be the only one here, so I made bilberry scones."

"Ugh," Largo muttered, following his sister to the kitchen.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll find something," she said consolingly. "I'm going to make him a light mushroom broth."

"Ten coppers says he doesn't take it," Largo muttered.

-fjfjfjfjf-

_Largo may have been accurate in that assessment,_ Belle thought as she knocked at Frodo's door for the third time. After receiving no answer yet again she announced, "Frodo, I'm coming in," and pushed the door open.

The master of Bag End sat on his bed, frantically scrawling on a piece of paper. _Another letter? _Belle wondered. About him on the coverlet were scattered a plethora of other papers, some covered in a fine script and others in a semi-scrawl that barely seemed related to the finer hand. He glanced up at her, and Belle felt her stomach twist at the haggard look in his eyes. It was the one from Sterday afternoon and Sunday night, and it stood out more strongly than ever. _Haunted, maybe; or perhaps_—_regretful? No, it's stronger than that. What's stronger than_—

"I don't want it," he said quietly.

"You poor dear," Belle said, placing the tray on a small table by the head of the bed. "Largo told me all about it. Is there anything I can get you that might help?"

He shook his head. "No, thank you. I only wish to be left alone."

"What about a nice spot of tea?"

He shook his head. "I'm not hungry."

"You haven't even seen what I brought you," she protested.

"I can smell it," he returned. "Please, take it away."

Reluctantly she picked up the tray. "If you don't eat something you'll wither into a shadow," she complained.

Frodo gave her an obstinate, yet almost desperate look. "That would be my own affair, wouldn't it? And far better than a wraith, I think."

The stubborn hobbit was leaving Belle with a desire to thump her head against the bedroom wall. "Is there anything you do want?"

"No, thank you."

Belle sighed. "Very well, have it your way." Reluctantly she exited the room, determined to speak with him at supper.

-fjfjfjfjf-

Frodo Baggins did not come out for supper. When Belle finally took matters into her own hands again and entered the tiny bedroom he lay sprawled across the bed, sound asleep. She quietly returned to the kitchen and prepared a meal tray for him, making sure that it was well covered, even going so far as to brew a cup of lavender tea as that Sam had suggested. This time she left it on the table and then paused, just watching the Baggins for a minute or two. He looked so delightful lying there, and so young, with his dark curls falling softly over his brow and his peaceful face unblemished by the creases which seemed to frequent it so much during the day. One arm was draped limply across his body and that maimed right hand was curled under his chin, likely clutching at his necklace again, as he did so often when he was awake. She smiled indulgently at the slumberer, and then with great daring fetched his grey cloak from where Frodo had draped it over the back of a chair and spread it over the supine form. Dropping a light kiss on the white forehead she murmured, "Sleep well, dear," and slipped back out of the room, unknowingly missing the nasty turning of Frodo's dreams by about ten minutes.

-o-o-o-

Credits:

Frodo's song at the beginning is straight from Master J. R. R. Tolkien.

A/N: I'm sure that most of you figured out what was happening in this chapter, but to those of you who didn't I will be explaining much of the last two chapters in in some upcoming ones.


	10. 9 Highday, part 1 - What Happens in the

Highday - Friday

**9. ****Highday, part 1: What Happens in the Kitchen...**

"Miss Bracegird— Miss Belle? Would you mind terribly if I made supper tonight?"

Surprised, Belle looked up from the kitchen table where she sat writing out various packing lists. Frodo stood in the doorway, one hand resting lightly against the oak frame, waiting her answer. She gave him a smile and beckoned him closer to the table. The Baggins approached cautiously.

"What were you thinking of making?" Belle asked.

"Plain, wholesome Shire food," Frodo declared. "Hot soup, cold meats and cheeses, fresh bread, a proper pie, perhaps a salad."

Belle frowned, wondering if this was his way of saying that he didn't like her cooking. She had tried to be more careful of what she served since Hevensday, but perhaps it still wasn't agreeing with him. She didn't really want her guest to have a relapse—although she wasn't really sure what it was that had set him off in the first place. Frodo hadn't answered any of the questions that either sibling had posed, and frankly, Belle was getting a little annoyed with all of the secrecy surrounding her intended.

"Did the meal last night not agree with you?" she asked, trying to sound casual as well as concerned.

"Oh, no, no," Frodo protested hastily. "I didn't mean that at all. I..." he began rubbing nervously at the back of his neck, "I just haven't been able to cook in a long time, and I miss it." She nodded in understanding and he added with a tight, embarrassed smile, "And I have a terrible craving for my Aunt Amaranth's broccoli soup."

She had to laugh at his look. "Well, then I think I can help you," she said in a conspiratorial way. "You see, Largo adores broccoli soup, so I always keep a little on hand. If you're willing to cook it, I can certainly provide the ingredients."

She gave him a sly grin and his answering smile was as enthusiastic as that of any tween. He offered her a courtly bow, murmuring, "I do thank thee, fair lady." Glancing back up at her he added in a more jocular tone, "You may have just saved my sanity." With a grin he straightened back up and then began poking his nose into the cupboards. Belle, however, sat motionless, her mind reeling with the import of Frodo's words. He had called her 'fair lady!' Surely he didn't just give just anyone such a title. He was coming around. He was weakening! Soon he would stop being such a shy little bird and declare his love to her, and of course she would accept him. How could she not? It was all that she ever dreamed of, being the wife of the very rich Baggins, mistress of the loveliest little smial in the Shire, not to mention the Baggins's very handsome person. Of course the first thing to be done once she was established was to discover how far that impertinent servant had entwined himself throughout Frodo's life and, if possible, wean her husband away from the creature's influence. Just the thought of that—that _Sam_ though was enough to bring her out of her daydreams and back to cold reality. She could almost hear the echo of Aunt Lobelia's voice in her ears. "_You have to catch them before you can land them, Belle dear_."

"Miss Brace—Miss Belle? Have you any thyme?"

"In the kitchen garden," she answered, still a bit dazedly.

"Yes, of course, thank you," Frodo mumbled, clearly preoccupied with his own thoughts. Behind her Belle heard some rummaging around and then watched as he left the kitchen with a gathering basket firmly tucked under one arm, leaving her to her notes.

It wasn't long before Frodo returned bearing his basket of greenery. He gave her a suspicious look.

"Do you usually let it be known that you're home on Highdays?" he queried.

Her eyebrows rose in a mildly mocking look of disbelief. "Certainly not, and particularly not today. I didn't think that you two would even be home this early." It was still mid-afternoon. The lads hadn't made it home before luncheon, but they had finished examining the Southfarthing smials and made it back to Green Hill by two. Tomorrow they were to leave for Bag End and there was still so much to prepare before they could leave. That was why she was sitting at the kitchen table writing notes, not to mention a large part of why she was so willing to leave the cooking tonight to Master Baggins. She was far too busy to think of food and had been going to let Largo do the cooking—a rather dangerous proposition if he was too deeply absorbed in his work.

He was still eyeing her warily. "Then you may wish to know that one of your neighbours is heading this way. In fact, she took me for the gardener." He stopped and a puckish gleam came into his eye.

"I'm so sorry," Belle said in chagrin. "I'll set them straight right away." She rose to leave but Frodo laid a restraining hand on her shoulder.

"Wait," he said. Startled, she looked down at the hand, and then up at him. He gave her a wicked grin. "Don't tell her anything."

Belle frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"Don't tell her who I am," Frodo's eyes were dancing. "Pretend that I _am_ the gardener. We wouldn't want her to be embarrassed if she sees me, would we?"

"If she's who I think she is, I might," Belle muttered.

Frodo shook his head. "No, _that_ makes it even more amusing. How well can you act?"

Belle shrugged and then smiled. This was a side of Frodo that she hadn't seen before. The lad was positively reckless, and she was beginning to catch the spirit of things. "What would I call you?"

Frodo was hastily unbuttoning his waistcoat. "Odo," he grinned. "short for Odorf."

"Odorf?" Belle exclaimed. "What kind of name is that?"

Frodo merely shrugged. "It's more poetic in its original context," he said mischievously.

Anything else that Belle wished to say was interrupted by a loud knocking that seemed to be coming from the back of one of the pantries. Belle hastened through said pantry to where the back kitchen door stood, followed by Frodo's indignant cry of, "You couldn't be bothered to tell me that there was a door back there?"

Belle merely ignored him and carefully opened the door. _Of course,_ she sighed mentally.

"Thrimidge, my dear, how _are_ you today? I was just passing by on my home from the market and thought I'd stop in and see how you and Largo are doing after all of the _horrible _affairs of the past week! You don't mind, of course, do you, darling?" Lilla Overdale, with her dainty little nose, honey-coloured curls, wide skirted lilac taffeta, rose-trimmed bonnet, and all that was feminine and beautiful breezed through the door without so much as a by-your-leave as she spoke, bustling down the passage to the kitchen.

Belle followed slowly, suddenly keenly aware of her gingham apron, work-frazzled hair, and plain russet skirt. _Just passing by, my foot! In that dress, you're out fishing!_

She took a moment to tame her tresses until Lilla's voice floated lightly back down the passage to her.

"And who might _this _be?"

Belle hurried back to the kitchen as a quaint, rustic-accented voice answered, "Odorf Underhill, at your service an' that o' your family's, miss." _Frodo?_

She paused at the entrance and struggled to repress her surprise as the gentlehobbit straightened from his quick but proper bow, brushing his hands worriedly at the dish towel he had tied around his waist. Frodo's fine gold and brown waistcoat had vanished somewhere, replaced by his dish towel apron and smudges of flour which dusted his braces, nose, and jawline. His dusky curls were all standing on end and slightly floury as if he'd been running his hands through them and he had a slightly apprehensive look on his face, as if eager to please and afraid of a scolding at the same time. He still looked unmistakeably like Frodo Baggins, but if she hadn't known who he was she would have thought that he was of the lower class—as long as she didn't notice how fine the cloth of his tunic and breeches were. Thankfully, Lilla wasn't the type to notice that sort of thing once she saw stains or dirt.

Frodo—_Odo_ turned to her with an anxious expression. "Beggin' your pardon, Miss Belle, but I didn't know as you were havin' comp'ny. I'll take m'self out t' th' garden, Mistress."

His voice was the crown of the act. Belle gave him a stern look, hoping that her own voice wasn't about to betray her and dissolve into a fit of giggles. "Did you start the bread yet?"

'Odo' nodded hastily. "Aye, Mistress, battered herb bread," he nodded toward a white-dusted bowl sitting on the farthest end of the table which Belle suspected was chiefly filled with flour, "just as Mister Largo likes, an' I can start th' soup oncet you're finished in here, beggin' your pardon, Mistress." He gave her a quick, apologetic bob of a bow that he _had_ to have learned from S. Gamgee.

"Nonsense," Belle declared firmly, keeping her voice rigidly stern. She turned to her uninvited guest, who was in the process of removing her bonnet and primping her lovely hair into shape. "Lilla, would you prefer to visit here or in the parlour?"

"Oh, here would be _fine,_ dear, but do let your gardener stay. I wouldn't want Largo's bread ruined on _my_ account, poor dear. He _does_ adore mine so." Lilla fluttered her eyelashes at the pair and seated herself at the kitchen table. Belle felt her teeth clench even tighter.

"Of course not, dear," she returned, forcing herself to smile. "Just let me put the kettle on."

"Beggin' your pardon, Miss Belle, but I can take care o' that," 'Odo' said hastily. "Jus' you enjoy thet visit o' yourn." Belle gave him a withering glare and he ducked his head in embarrassment. "Beggin' your pardon, Mistress," he added in a near-whisper.

"Very well," she said imperiously, and seated herself comfortably across from Lilla. If Frodo Baggins was going to play the servant then he'd best not try to get too familiar. _Some hobbits_ might tolerate that sort of thing, but her family never had, and she simply couldn't, even if they were only acting.

As Frodo began searching for the kettle Lilla leaned across the table and smiled in a supposedly comforting and encouraging manner. "So, how _have_ you been, darling?" she asked. "It's been such a dreadful time for you over the last few months, and _then_ you couldn't even grieve properly this week because you've had to put up with a guest; why, it must be perfectly trying."

Belle's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "How did you know that I had a guest?"

Lilla flung a hand up as if brushing off the question. "Oh, everyone knows, Thrim dear. I heard it in the market, of course, but Matt Brockhouse saw them at the Stuffed Goose on Monday. Is it true that Lobelia left _everything_ to him?"

Belle gave her another look and Lilla added, "Oh, don't _look_ at me like that, darling. Mungo's been talking all _week_, claiming that she cut him off _completely_ in favour of Frodo Baggins. You _must_ tell me, darling. I've been _dying_ to know. Is it true?"

Belle bristled up. "He actually said that?"

"Of _course_, darling. How would _you_ feel if your aunt had passed you up? Did she?"

"No, of course not!"

"What did _you_ get?"

Belle gave her a frosty look. "I don't believe that's any of your business." _Where have I heard that before,_ she wondered.

"Oh, _darling_, don't _be_ like that. It's only friendly enquiry. _Did_ she cut off Mungo?"

"No, of course not!" Belle was more than indignant. "He's only saying that because he didn't get any coin. She left him several books and her best table and chairs."

Lilla appeared unimpressed. "Well, darling, that's hardly _anything_ compared to a pipe-weed field or two."

Belle began fingering a stray curl, unsure of how much Lilla would even understand. "Well, Aunt Beila didn't exactly leave any of us any money or land. She," Belle hesitated. "She changed when she was in the Lockholes. She left all of that to Frodo, but only because he's the deputy-mayor. Everything else was distributed to the family as her last gifts.

Lilla's eyes were wide. "Why_ever_ did she pass her family over like that?"

Belle nervously traded her hair for tugging at her right earlobe. "Well, she feels—_felt_ responsible for the mess that the Shire was in, so in her will she charged Frodo to use all of the coin and the profit from the sale or letting of the properties to restore the Shire. I think that she was trying to make amends."

Lilla was shaking her head. "Poor _dear_, to learn that your beloved _son_—"

"Yes, Lilla, we've been over this before." And she certainly did _not_ want to go through it again.

"Well, I _can't _say that I blame her, then," Lilla declared, surprising Belle. For a moment she felt gratitude to her old rival.

"Tell me, _is _the Master of Bag End as strange as they say? Mungo claims that he had a fit over _nothing _and threw _everyone _out the night of - the burial." Lilla's voice dropped to a whisper at the last words as if she feared to offend.

"Mungo's also a jealous fool," Belle returned with some heat.

"Maybe so, darling, but Alda Toesy said the same thing, and you _can't_ deny that _she_ has no reason to be jealous. What happened?"

"Not your business, _Lillith_."

"Temper, Thrimidge, temper." The two lasses sat back and looked at each other for a minute. Slowly a wicked smile spread across Lilla's face. "Do you _like _him?"

"What?" Belle tried to feign innocence.

"Mr _Baggins_, of course darling. I've heard he's _remarkably_ handsome, with eyes like forget-me-nots and hair as dark as coffee; he sounds like _quite_ the catch."

Behind them the gardener suddenly sneezed. Belle turned to frown at him, but he was diligently cutting up a head of broccoli and had his back to them.

She turned back to Lilla and shrugged. "That sounds like an accurate description, I suppose."

Lilla smirked. "_Accurate description_?" she mocked. "Has our _dear_ little Thrimidge _finally_ found herself a lad? From what _I've_ heard you're even going up there."

"Up where?" _Who has Largo been talking to?_

Lilla almost pouted. "Oh, _darling_, _don't _you keep up with the _gossip_? _Everyone_ knows you're going. And I must say it _simply_ isn't _fair_ of you to be keeping secrets from me. _How_ long have we been friends?"

_Never_.

"So," Lilla gave her a sly look. "Tell me all about it."

Belle shook her head, feeling a little desperate. He was right in the room, for goodness sake! "He really isn't like that at all. He's very...very secretive. Very quiet."

Lilla leaned even closer. "But you like him."

Belle snorted. "Please. He barely knows my name."

"Ohhh?" Lilla purred. "So, there's really _nothing_?"

"Absolutely not," Belle snapped. "He may be handsome and polite, but he's precious little else. He truly can't remember my name. It's always 'Miss Bracegirdle' this and 'Miss Bracegirdle' that."

"So there's _no _love lost between the two of you?" Lilla sat back up, cocking her head to one side.

"None." Oh, was she_ ever_ going to pay for these lies later.

"So you wouldn't mind if _I_ met him?"

Belle's eyes narrowed. _Perhaps sooner than I thought_. "I thought that you were after Largo," she said bluntly.

Lilla smirked. "What does it matter to _you_, darling? One's your brother, and you can't stand the other."

Trapped by her own words Belle could only shrug and try to school her expression to anything other than, 'I will kill you, Lilla Overdale.' "You'll have to catch them first," she pointed out.

Lilla shrugged back, just a slight ladylike lift of her shoulders, so unlike Belle's own rather masculine, blunt shrug. Sometimes Belle wished that she'd had even one sister to teach her these things.

"Oh, _trust_ me, Thrim, _catching_ them _isn't_ the problem." Lilla smirked at her like a cat who'd gotten into the cream.

Belle leaned back and quirked a sceptical eyebrow at her rival. "So, why hasn't Largo ever bit?" she asked pointedly. Lilla's smile slipped for a moment and Belle's grew. _That's one for the long-nosed wallflower_.

"_I'm_ only _forty_," Lilla snapped. "_Unlike_ you."

The gardener sneezed again and the two lasses turned and glared at him.

"Are you laughing at us, Odo Underhill?" Belle demanded frostily

The hobbit turned toward them, ducking his head in that apologetic way. "Jus' a bit o' cold, Mistress. Your tea's nigh ready."

Belle inclined her head in approval. "Thank you."

As 'Odo' turned back to his cooking Lilla gave a slight sigh and said, "Now, _he's_ a fair piece. Just a _touch _on the thin side, but _those _cheekbones! When_ever_ did you hire _him_, darling?"

Belle's mind flew. "Oh, not that long ago," she hedged. "Just this week. He's still recovering from the Time of Troubles, and then he took ill and is only now getting over that too. Largo offered him a place to help him get his strength back." As if overhearing her the gardener gave his broccoli a rather vicious chop.

Lilla never took her eyes off him. "Well, I _must_ say," she murmured, and let the words fall away.

Belle gave her a look of disgust. "Lilla, he's a _gardener_."

"_Still_," Lilla purred.

"That's disgusting," Belle muttered.

At those words Lilla looked at her, seeming to take in every unfeminine flaw that Belle had in that one disdainful glance, from her too-long nose to the ink stains on her apron. "And _that_ is why no hobbit will even look at you, _darling_," she retorted. Returning her attention to the gardener she added in an undertone, "_Any_ time you want help with that, _just_ let me know. I'd be _more _than willing to help."

"I'm sure you would," Belle muttered under her breath. Lilla sent her another quick smirk and then drew in a sharp breath. 'Odo' was approaching with the tea-tray.

"Your tea, Mistress Belle," he mumbled.

"Just put it here on the table," Belle said, brushing a hand lightly across the space between her and Lilla. The hobbit bowed and silently placed the tray where she had indicated (pausing just long enough to send Belle a pleading look) and turned to leave—just as Lilla purposely dropped her handkerchief.

"Get that for me, will you, Odo," she commanded.

For a moment the Baggins froze where he stood, and Belle wondered if he would refuse. Then, slowly, he swung back toward them with an unreadable expression on his face and said in a monotone, "Aye, miss." He knelt to pick up the handkerchief, and then stilled again, his eyes growing wide and his face paling.

The two hobbitesses watched him impatiently. "Maybe he _isn't_," Lilla muttered.

"Odo!" Belle snapped, afraid that he was about to betray them. "What are you looking at?"

Frodo started and looked up at her in shock. He stumbled around for a moment, searching for words, and then said in a flustered manner, "Beggin' your pardon, Mistress. I were jus', thet is, I jus' rec'nised sommat 'bout this table."

"Well, tell me about it later," Belle said hastily. "Go see to the soup."

That seemed to bring him out of it. "Aye, Mistress," he said hastily, bobbing and scrambling to his feet. Beggin' your pardon, Mistress. Your han'kerchif, miss," handing the cloth back to Lilla. He quickly returned to his cooking area, where he began briskly mixing ingredients together, as if to work out some extra energy. The two watched him go.

"Strange fellow," Belle observed.

"_Quite_," Lilla agreed in a tone stating that she had clearly written the gardener off completely. Then she turned to Belle. "_So_," she began, drawing out the 'o', "_tell_ me about Frodo Baggins. Does he _really_ have only _nine_ fingers?"

Belle stiffened, her mind racing. "Where in the Shire did you hear _that_?" she demanded, trying to buy time.

Lilla chuckled, a lilting sound that grated on Belle's nerves. "Oh, _darling_, you really _haven't_ been keeping up, _have_ you? Simply _everyone's_ been talking about it. Some say that it's nine, some that it's only _eight_, and a few _do_ say that he lost a _whole hand_ altogether because Mr Baggins always seems to be hiding the right one in his pocket, but the general agreement is that he only has _four_ fingers on the _right_ hand. Oh, darling, it's been perfectly _thrilling_. When _was_ the last time you _heard_ any news?"

Belle had reached her limit. There were only so many taunts that a lass could be expected to take. "I don't know, _Lillith_, you tell me," she retorted heatedly. "I've been a bit _busy_ this week with my _guest_; last week I was preparing for a burial; and before that I was taking care of my aunt! I think that the last time I "heard" anything was Foreyule!"

Lilla shook her head sympathetically. "You _poor_ dear," she crooned. "Shall I catch you up on _everything_?"

"That really isn't necessary," Belle said stiffly.

Lilla simpered a bit. "Well, you _must_ let me tell you that they say the _entire_ restoration has been funded by _him_, until now, of course."

Belle gave her a bewildered glare. "_Who_?" she asked pointedly.

"Frodo _Baggins_, of course, darling." Lilla smirked at her hostess. "I trust he never _mentioned_ that?"

"He doesn't discuss his personal business with me," Belle retorted, "and if you _really_ think that you could get anything out of him you have my full blessing. The very little that I do know I have practically had to _pry_ out of him! I swear he's closer than an oyster!"

"Thank the Valar for that," Frodo murmured faintly in his own voice. Belle shot him a quick glance, but the tone was apparently soft enough that Lilla didn't hear him.

"Temper, Thrim," she chided, selecting some small cakes and sandwiches from the tray. Belle rose and carefully poured two cups of tea, handing one to Lilla, and for several minutes they devoted themselves to the food.

It was as they were finishing their fourth cakes that Lilla said, "Oh! I _just_ remembered _why_ I popped over! I was _wondering_ if you, Largo, and Mr Baggins would be interested in coming to supper. Mum's been _meaning_ to invite the _three_ of you _all week_, but she _would_ keep forgetting. You could come at seven and we'd eat at eight, or you _could_ come earlier and we could _visit_." She gave Belle a meaningful smile and selected another cake.

In answer Belle gave her a very odd look and then turned to observe her busy 'gardener,' who couldn't possibly have missed the invitation. He stood at the far worktable carving a chicken which she had cooked earlier and placed in the cold room. Beside him sat two lovely looking pie crusts just waiting to be filled. A pot was cheerfully simmering on the stove, sending delicious-smelling odours throughout the kitchen, and Frodo was softly humming a tune that she'd never heard before. She turned back to Lilla.

"I'm sorry, dear, but we couldn't possibly impose, and certainly not after Odo's been working so hard. Perhaps another day, hm?" Inside she smiled wickedly as Lilla's face fell.

"Oh, darling, _couldn't_ you just put it away for _tomorrow_? It's _only_ some soup."

Belle shook her head sympathetically. "I'm afraid not. You see, the rumours are quite true. Largo and I _have_ been invited to Bag End, and we're leaving first thing in the morning." She smiled demurely. "I'm afraid that it would go bad while we're gone."

Lilla gave her a look of dismay. "But, but, but that means that _he'll_ be leaving tomorrow!" she stuttered.

Belle bit back her grin. "I'm so sorry, Lilla," she murmured. "Perhaps you could invite him another time?"

"_When_ will there be _another_ time?" Lilla wailed.

Belle patted the hand of the younger lass gently. "I'm sure you'll come up with something," she comforted.

"Belle, what in Middle Earth do you have planned for—" Largo stopped dead as he stepped through the kitchen doorway and caught sight of the inhabitants. "Miss Overdale."

His bow was stiff, but polite, and Lilla immediately brightened up. "Oh, Largo _darling_, _there_ you are. I've been wondering." She simpered at him.

Largo peeled his horrified eyes away from her and turned to his sister. "Forgive the intrusion, ladies. I just wondered what was for supper."

"Broccoli soup and cold chicken," Belle answered cheerfully before Lilla could say a word. "_Odo's_ cooking," she stressed 'Odo' slightly in hopes that her brother would understand.

Largo's eyes goggled. "_Odo_?!" he exclaimed.

The hobbit in question turned toward them with a questioning look. "Aye, sir?" Belle absent-mindedly noticed that he was clutching the handle of carving knife tightly in his right hand.

_Clever. That should keep Lillith from noticing the finger._

Lilla's gaze shifted rapidly between the two hobbits. "Largo, dear, is something _wrong_?"

Frodo's face was white as he watched the trio. Belle cast an anxious glance at her brother.

After a moment Largo seemed to recover. "I had no idea that Odo could cook," he answered.

'Odo' seemed relieved and indignant at once. "Aye, sir," he said, puffing out his chest a bit. "My mum taught me when I were jus' a lit'le lad—"

"I don't doubt it," Largo interrupted dryly. "However, this _does_ explain where you've been for the past _hour_. Been looking for you. I need you in the parlour. Now."

Frodo gave him a look of surprise, but hastily turned away to put down the knife. "Aye, sir," he said briskly, wiping his hands off and thrusting them into his pockets.

"Wait, Largo," Lilla cut in hastily. "_Is_ Frodo Baggins here?"

Largo gave her an amused look. "Yes, he is," he replied with a smirk. "He's a bit busy at the moment though. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I was _wondering_ if you three would be interested coming over for _supper_. Mum's making your _favourite_." She batted her eyelashes at him.

Largo's smile became tight. "My apologies, Miss Lilla, but I think we'll be a little too busy tonight." He glanced at Belle and added, "Got a _lot_ of packing to do. Come on, Odo." The pair quit the room.

Belle just shook her head at her companion's crestfallen look. "Lads," she sympathised. Lilla made no answer and Belle rose, shaking a very few crumbs out of her skirt. "I do thank you for coming, Lilla," she said, "but I'm afraid that I have things that I need to get back to work now. As Largo said, we _do_ have a lot of work ahead of us yet tonight, so maybe I'll see you when we get back." As she spoke she picked up Lilla's bonnet and held it out to her. Startled, Lilla took it.

"Oh, but _darling_— Lilla began, but Belle shook her head.

"I'm sorry Lilla, but _do_ come around some other time." _Like when I'm Mistress of Bag End_. She gathered the cups and plates together on the tray and carried it to the worktable. Lilla watched her for a moment and then shook herself.

"Well, I'm _sure_ you're right, Thrimidge _darling_, so I'll just take my leave." Lilla rose and offered her hostess a curtsey of thanks, saying as she did so, "I do thank you for the tea and the time spent here. Your gift has made my day worthwhile." This was a courtesy that all hobbits were taught from faunthood; today it was little more than a polite nothing. Still Belle nodded in acceptance and answered correctly, "You were most welcome here, dear Lilla." She quietly saw her guest to the road.

When she returned Frodo was frantically using his fingers to comb the flour out of his hair and Largo was leaning over the table, laughing hysterically.

"I can't b-believe you, Baggins," he gasped. "That has to be the greatest prank ever pulled on Lilla! What possessed you?"

Frodo offered him a small smile as he straightened. "She called me the gardener," he answered quietly.

"Odorf Underhill!" Largo chortled. "Odorf!" He eyed his companion. "Wasn't that a bit risky?"

Frodo shrugged. "Neither of them ever noticed, and that was the point."

"Alright," Belle demanded. "What's significant about 'Odorf'?"

Largo clutched his side, still laughing. "Frodo!" he shrieked. "It's F-Frodo b-b-backwards!"

Belle gaped at the pair and Frodo grinned back. "It's more poetic in its original context," he said, repeating his earlier statement.

Belle began laughing then. "Tell me you jest," she giggled.

Frodo shook his head. "Nope, write it down and see for yourself."

"You're terrible," she snickered. He made her a sweeping bow in return.

"Wherever did 'Underhill' come from?" Largo grinned.

Frodo's smile faltered for a moment, but then was back again. "It was the name that I used when I left the Shire. In fact, they still can't keep me straight in Bree."

"Really?" Belle smirked. "Odorf Underhill?"

"Frodo, actually. Odorf is," he paused and then smirked back, "much older than that."

"Oh? How old?" Belle wondered.

Frodo mused on that for a minute. "I'm not sure," he finally said, "It happened sometime during my Buckland days as a way to amuse Yrrem."

"Eerim?"

"Merry," Frodo explained.

Largo was still chuckling over the trick. "I can't believe how long you kept her going! How long were you in here?"

"Too long. Far too long," Frodo answered, slumping dramatically against the table. The siblings roared and Frodo rubbed his head as if in weariness. "I thought they'd never stop." His voice took on a high-pitched female quality. "Oh, my sainted aunt, _did_ you know that he was funding the recovery? That he has _ten_ toes and _nine_ fingers? That he keeps fourteen cats and his _gardener_ at Bag End? That his bedroom is full of _squirrels_ and he _sleeps_ with a pet _rat_? Well, I _never_ heard anything so _ridiculous_ in all my days! _Something_ ought to be _done_ about it!"

Belle was rolling from side to side from laughing so hard. "Oh, oh," she gasped. "You sound just like her. But _did_ you see those _cheekbones_? My, my, _my_," she giggled.

Frodo gave her a wry smirk. "Well, I'm glad you find it so funny," he said, sounding mildly reproving.

Largo's eyebrows rose. "You don't?"

Frodo gave him a disbelieving look. "I invite you to sit in a room where two lasses are discussing your upcoming wedding in detail, and you can't say a word about it."

Largo gave Belle his own look of disbelief. "Belle, you didn't."

"That was Lilla's doing, not my idea," Belle said hastily.

Largo gave a whistle of surprise. "Baggins, you really are a hero."

Frodo smirked. "No, I was just hiding."

"Hiding in plain sight," Largo mused. "I might have to try that next time."

"Sorry," Frodo returned, grinning. "You have to be a stranger for that to work."

"Well, I'll be one next week." He smirked at the Baggins. "In fact, I'll be one tomorrow."

"Very true," Frodo granted. The smile that the pair gave each other was almost one of friendship. Belle felt herself tense when she saw it and had to fight down the smile that kept threatening to pop out.

Frodo noticed though. "You seem awfully happy, Miss Belle," he observed.

She let her smile slip out. "I'm just glad to see you two finally getting along," she returned.

"Yes, we'll just see how long it lasts, won't we," Largo returned, but even he smiled as he spoke.

"Stars above!" Frodo suddenly exclaimed. "The bread!" He rushed to the oven to check on his creation.

"Don't tell me you ruined perfectly good bread, Baggins," Largo protested.

"It wouldn't be the first time," grumbled Frodo from where he was peering anxiously into the oven.

"Call me for supper," Largo told Belle, and then left the kitchen.

Belle sat back down at the table to resume her neglected list. "What happened the last time?" she wondered.

"I was doing some research and didn't watch it," Frodo mumbled. "Burnt to a crisp."

Belle chuckled. "What were you researching?"

"I haven't the faintest." Frodo was now fishing for his loaf and appeared to have most of his attention bent on the task. "Doubtless it was some Elvish word or an event in history or—" he froze suddenly.

"Do you do a lot of research?" Belle queried.

"The bill of sale," Frodo mumbled.

"What?"

"For Bag End. I was writing it up and lost track of time..." Frodo's voice drifted off and he stared blankly at the wall for a few minutes, and then shook himself. "That was so long ago," he mumbled to himself.

"And you're going to have a nasty burn in a few more minutes," Belle said, raising her voice in an attempt to break through his thoughts.

Frodo made no answer, but he did finish removing his bread and eyed it critically. "Mmm, maybe half done," he mumbled. "I thought it had been longer than that..." He shrugged and put the loaf back into the oven.

Belle gave him a shrewd look. "Do you regret selling now?"

"I regretted it the moment that I thought of it," he mumbled, fumbling at his necklace.

"Why did you sell it, then? You weren't running out of money, everyone in the Shire knows that." Belle was genuinely curious this time, and not just trying to pry.

"I needed to," was the quiet, but closed answer. Belle shook her head in frustration.

_Why won't you just talk to me?_ she screamed silently. _You did on Trewsday_.

"You know, that's really not an answer," she tried.

He gave her a wary sideways glance. "Perhaps I do not wish to discuss it, Miss Bracegirdle," he said with finality, and then turned back to his work. "Tell me, do you prefer gooseberry or bilberry preserves in your pie? I found a jar of each."

He was changing the subject again. _Wonderful_. "_I_ prefer bilberries, but Largo can't stand them. That's why you only found _one_ jar."

He turned back to her with a smirk, but Belle noticed that it didn't reach his eyes, which remained wary.

"I should like to teach him differently," he teased. "There's no fruit in the world like bilberries, although I do prefer apples. You don't have any, though."

In spite of her concerns she found herself grinning. "Of course not. That's the first fruit out of the hole! Other than strawberries," she amended.

Frodo's face became thoughtful. "Wasn't that a strawberry-rhubarb pie that we enjoyed on Sunday?"

"I hide a few jars in my wardrobe," she confessed in an undertone.

Frodo chuckled. "And enjoy them in private?"

Belle laughed back. "No, I really do save them for special occasions. You have to do that with Largo around. He'll eat strawberry jam plain if you give him a spoon."

"A very sensible hobbit," Frodo approved, giving the soup a good stir.

"Not really," Belle returned, although she was laughing as she did so.

Frodo just shrugged and started humming an old comic harvest song under his breath about picking bushes clean of their fruit and coming home with full tummies and empty baskets.

Belle shook her head fondly at him. _Cheeky!_ she thought, and then remembered.

"What's wrong with this table?" she asked.

Frodo looked at her in surprise and then gave the table a searching look. "Nothing that I can see," he answered.

"What did it remind you of?" Belle persisted. "You said that it reminded you of something."

"Forgive me if I correct you," Frodo answered quietly, "but I said that I recognised something about it, and I do." He drew in a breath and said, "My father made it."

Belle felt her eyes widen and her lips part slightly as if to say something, but she could think of nothing.

"I remember him carving the legs with flowers and vines," Frodo continued, remembering. "In fact, he allowed me to help him." He left the soup for a minute and moved to the table. Kneeling on the floor he carefully touched one of the legs. Belle knelt beside him. The table leg was decoratively carved with morning-glory and sweet pea blossoms.

"It was this one," Frodo murmured, his long white fingers tracing the vines. "I wanted to be a wright, just like my father. I hadn't begun any training yet; I only watched him, but he let me hold the chisel and he wrapped his hands around mine and guided them." His voice trailed away as if in memory, but then he chuckled. "I was constantly asking questions while we worked. Sometimes I wonder how they ever put up with me. He even let me come with him when he delivered it, so that I would feel as if I were part of the entire process. We were living in Woodhall and it was the furthest that he ever had to drive to deliver anything. The drive seemed to last forever, but I learned so much during it. When we arrived there was a little lass hanging by her knees from the front gate on a dare." He turned to smile at her. "You tumbled off just as we pulled up to the gate, and your ears were bright red." Belle felt her ears burning again. _Curse these tell-tale ears!_

"You ran inside to announce the visitors, and your brothers all came running, peppering Da with questions and demanding to see the table; your father was close behind. I don't remember negotiations or delivery, except that I helped carry the table inside and thought that the leg that I was lifting was heavier than the rest of the table.

The lads reminded me of a pack of baying dogs, and I was quite shy of them at first, but we played together until I hid in a tree during hide-and-seek. They said that wasn't fair and wouldn't play when I suggested that we just climb because, 'Bracegirdles _don't_ climb _trees_'." He curled his lip as he spoke, imitating a much younger Elbin perfectly. Belle gave him a sharp look, but he seemed unaware that he'd done anything. "We all had the blessing dinner together at the table and I must have done something that impressed Mr Bracegirdle, for he told Da that he'd like to see how I turned out when I came of age, and Da promised him an invitation to the coming-of-age party."

He paused again. "That was the last time that I helped him. There was a chest that he finished by himself when we returned, and we delivered it two weeks later as we travelled to Buckland to greet my new cousin Berilac, but they never came home." He stroked the leg gently, lost in memory. Belle hardly dared to breathe, she was that afraid to interrupt him. "I don't even know who told Mr Bracegirdle that Papa was -dead. He wanted a cabinet done, with trailing sprays of wisteria carved as if hanging from the top. Papa was working on his sketches in the library that morning because he had to get away from all of his relations for a while. I was with him and he let me see. They were beautiful. He let me try my hand at it, and said that they were good, but they weren't, not really. Then we had the welcoming picnic that afternoon for Beri and they went boating with various aunts and uncles. Everyone else came back, but they went a little further on their own..." His voice trailed off again and they sat on the floor in motionless silence.

_Papa._ It sounded so tender, so childish, as if behind the façade of aloof dignity and politeness stretched to the breaking point there still lurked a little lad, barely more than a faunt, who missed his parents. Hesitantly she reached out a hand and gently began rubbing his back in a comforting manner. For once he didn't shy away, but allowed the touch, his head bent. She stroked his dark curls very gently and a shudder ran through his body. He lifted his head and turned to look at her.

"Thank you, Miss Belle," he murmured, and she smiled back.

-o-o-o-

A/N: The idea of Odorf and the line, "It's more poetic in its original context," is borrowed with much love from Primsong's story, **Rivendell International Airport**.

I do know about the Hebrew tale of Lilith, but Belle doesn't. She just calls Lilla that to spite her, much as Lilla calls her Thrimidge. There is no inference here whatsoever.


	11. 10 Highday, part 2 - Secrets Discovered

**10. Highday, part 2 - Secrets Discovered**

"Largo, are you finished packing yet?" Belle queried as she peered through the study door.

It was just past nightfall. After supper (it had been surprisingly good considering that it was broccoli soup -usually one of those rare foods that Belle did _not_ enjoy) Frodo had vanished into the depths of the study with Largo, just as he had yesterday. She had joined the pair last night and enjoyed a quiet book while the gentlehobbits wrote, and would have loved to join them again tonight, but thanks to _darling_ Lilla there had been far too much left to do before tomorrow and so she'd spent her evendim packing and preparing the smial for the trip.

Largo didn't even look up from the document he was perusing as he mumbled vaguely about finished, home, and "long before that Lilla."

Belle nodded hesitantly at this information, hoping that she understood him correctly. "Could you give me a hand then?" she queried.

"No." The answer was so blunt that Belle was taken aback.

"Why not?"

Largo waved a vague hand at the scattered papers across his desk. "Olongot's will. Want to finish this draft before we leave-and that should say 'generations,' not 'ancestors.'

_Barrister talk_. _Of course_. "All right, have you seen Frodo anywhere?"

Largo's head shot up, and for the first time Belle realised that her brother wasn't just being rude. He was angry.

"The kitchen," he snapped. "He just left. Claimed he had a headache. That's a Baggins for you. Just leaves all the work for someone else to do while he goes off gallivanting somewhere."

Belle's eyebrows rose. "Those aren't even his deeds," she said pointedly.

Largo waved the remark away angrily. "Not the point."

"Oh? Then what is?" Belle demanded frostily.

Largo, brown eyes smouldering, jabbed a thumb at a nearby armchair, where several papers lay jumbled together on the seat. A quill, blotter, a bottle of black ink, another of red, and a pair of steel pens all sat on a small table beside the chair. His voice shook a little with rage. "Do you know what he does when he leaves early at night? What he's been doing _all week_, in fact! It's no wonder that he keeps nodding off..." Largo's voice trailed off into mumbled growls.

Belle gazed at the papers, her curiosity aroused at the sight. "Writing?"

Largo snorted derisively. "Brilliantly done, little sister, but do you know _what_ he's writing?"

Belle bristled at her brother's tone. "I don't know. Letters, maybe?" she snapped.

"No. Not letters or mayoral duties or any kind of copying for anyone. No, nothing _useful_. He's writing a book! And not just any book, oh no. _This_ is a book all about his madcap adventures last year. Lazy, inconsiderate, irresponsible-"

"Hush, he'll hear you!" _And all my work this afternoon will be undone_.

"What if he does? He thinks the same of us Bracegirdles. All Bagginses do, even if _we_ do something _productive_ with our time instead of running off and wasting it on pointless adventures. To think that I got out the pony trap for him-"

"He hasn't treated us like that," Belle argued.

"No? How many people did he talk to at the burial?" Largo sneered. "Oh, and Hilda really doesn't counts because _she's_ a Brandybuck. She married a Brandybuck, she _is_ a Brandybuck."

"_They_ wouldn't talk to _him_," Belle growled. "I was watching, all day, unlike _you_, I might add. So don't even _try_ to take that tone with _me_, Largo Bracegirdle. Besides, if you haven't noticed, he's in mourning, even _now_."

"Mourning?" Largo scoffed, "Him? For Aunt Lobelia?"

Belle snorted at her brother's obtuseness. "You must be blind," she snapped. "He almost feels her death as deeply as we do."

Largo snorted back. "That'll be the day," he retorted. He glared up at his little sister. "I don't like him."

"That's been obvious from the beginning," Belle almost spat the words.

The pair glared at each other. Belle was the first to break.

"I don't have time for this," she sniffed haughtily. "I need to get into the linen cupboard. _If _he returns before I do, keep him here."

Largo chuckled mockingly. "Why, did you freeze last night?" he taunted.

Belle stiffened at the derisive tone. "No, but _you_ might during this trip if I can't get any packed," she snapped, " 'Never forget the bedding,' _remember_?"

Largo gave her a smug smile. "Don't worry. I'll take care of him."

"Thank you," Belle returned sarcastically and hurriedly quit the room before he could draw her back into the pointless argument, but it still continued in her head as she made her way to the linen cupboard. Why had she and Largo of all people been arguing? If it had been Elbin she could have understood, or Torgo, but she and Largo were more like best friends than siblings and had been since they were eight and ten and she had dropped a frog down Lotho's shirt after he'd been teasing Largo so miserably. They'd _always_ stood together, through their tweens, the deaths of both their parents, _three_ unwanted suitors, Lilla, and the Time of Troubles. They'd worked together on their plan to bring the master of Bag End to his knees, and yet now, when they were so close he was going to throw all of their hard work away, not to mention all of Belle's dreams. It wasn't fair. Was she going to have to choose between her brother and her intended?

That thought abruptly ended the mental conversation and, with a hasty glance up and down the empty passage, she slipped into the 'spare bedroom', closing the door quickly behind her.

Someone had already lit the hearth and the firelight threw a cosy glow over the little room. The slight gust as she opened the door caused little shadows to dance across the wall. She was surprised to see how tidy the place was. Out of all her brothers only Torgo, three years younger than her, had ever shown the slightest inclination to pick up after himself, and she had always assumed that all males were the same. Apparently Frodo wasn't, for the room appeared untouched except for his grey cloak draped over a wooden-backed chair which sat in the middle of the room, and a very large book with red covers on the desk.

Belle felt a thrill of curiosity race through her at the sight of that book. According to Largo in that book, sitting so innocently before her, were the answers to her every question...and Frodo didn't even know that she was in here.

She struggled with herself for a moment, and then the thought of Frodo being stalled by an impatient Largo crossed her mind -and what Largo might say in his current state. Suddenly it wasn't that difficult to restrain herself after all.

The door to the actual linen closet stood only a few feet from the fireplace, having been a later addition to the little room in an attempt to solve the problem of, "where to store all of the linens that these well-meaning relatives keep sending four motherless children for Yule?" The aunts, unfortunately, refused to take them back and for a long time they had just piled up in the little windowless room. Finally Elbin, who wanted to be a carpenter and a delver, dug out the closet, furnished it with shelves, and had stuffed all of the blankets, towels, sheets, tablecloths, and everything else into it. The blankets which spilled out at her feet as soon as she opened the door made Belle wonder if Frodo had tried to open it.

The travel bedding was further back in the closet than she thought and it took her some time to re-straighten everything once she was done. Just as she was finishing the slight _snick_ of a turning knob sent her scrambling as far into the closet as she could (much further than before now that the shelves had been put to rights). She pulled the door nearly shut behind her.

In the warm semi-dark all of her senses seemed sharpened. She caught the scent of chamomile tea and heard an exhausted sigh, shortly followed by the clink of glass and then metal being placed on wood. Then silence fell. Belle strained her ears to hear anything, but in vain. After a few minutes of this almost palpable silence she could stand it no longer and risked a peep through the slight crack she had left.

Frodo Baggins, young, desirable Frodo, the loveliest bit of hobbit-flesh to ever be born in the Shire, stood near his bed gazing at the fireplace and looking...ancient. Belle stared in astonishment. She'd never seen a hobbit look so old in all her days; old and tired; even a little ill. He kept clutching at his chest as if feeling for something and then hastily pulling his hand away, and his eyes stared at the fire in hollow despair. Belle felt her own eyes bulging out of her head, but couldn't make herself look away. What was this? What had happened to the mischievous prankster or the mournful little lad from earlier? Even the scrupulously polite Master would have at least been familiar. Who was _this_ creature standing before her fireplace and looking out of her Frodo's blue eyes?

With a shudder Frodo twisted away, grabbing at his jewel and muttering some sort of Elvish babble under his breath. Belle held her breath as she watched, suddenly feeling rather concerned about what would happen if she was caught. After a few minutes Frodo began singing in a low, rather desperate-sounding voice. The music was almost haunting, somehow both hopeful and sorrowing at once, and tears were pricking in the corners of Frodo's eyes. Belle found herself intrigued and enchanted by the soft tune and wondered what the words were. Something foreign no doubt, perhaps Elvish. Frodo moved out of Belle's line of view, still singing.

Now that the more pressing problem had been removed from her sight Belle began considering her situation. Gracious! She hadn't meant for things to go _this_ far! She'd just lost her head when she heard him coming. He was supposed to be in the study, for goodness sake! Was Largo _trying_ to get her killed? Because if _the _Baggins caught her lurking in the closet that was probably what would happen. She remembered the ferocity in those blue eyes on Sterday night -and shivered at the idea of such a gaze directed at her again. And the miserable thing was that she hadn't even done anything! She'd just panicked!

With these gloomy thoughts passing through her mind she peered anxiously through the crack again. She could hear sounds of splashing coming from the far corner, as well as mumbles of songs, but thanks to her limited view she couldn't _see_ anything. _However, if he's washing himself for bed he probably has his back to the door_..._could I make it before he turns around?_

She stifled a sigh and pressed the heel of her hand firmly against her forehead, trying to weigh her options objectively. Of course, there was that little problem involved in getting the bedding out of the room with her. After all, what had Mum always said? 'Never stay at an inn without a _clean_ set of sheets. You never know when those blankets were last washed. Thrimidge Bracegirdle, are you listening to me? You must _never_ forget the bedding.'

The bedding. _The bedding! Oh gracious!_ The bedding was sitting in a tidy pile just to the left of the closet door. If Frodo was observant at all he'd notice it, _and _how _long do you expect it to take before he notices the door after that?_

She noticed a movement out of the corner of her eye and glanced up hastily. Frodo, waistcoat off and braces hanging, walked over to the bed where he carefully laid out a fine nightshirt. She scrutinised what she could see of it. _Well, that appears to be a very fine nightshirt, indeed_. In fact, she almost would have wagered that it was made of silk. _If the master of Bag End can afford such a shirt -what would the garments of the Mistress be like?_ Truth be told, part of her (the coward's part, she was certain) sometimes gave a slight quail at the thought of actually _marrying_ Frodo in the light of everything that she had -and hadn't- learned about him. Today, though, had done so much to silence that little voice, and now this! This nightshirt quelled all doubts. She _would_ marry Frodo and be the wife of the Baggins, just as Aunt Lobelia had wanted for so many years. She _would_ become the mistress of Bag End and no one was going to stop her -_especially_ not Largo.

She watched greedily as Frodo slowly removed his shirt. _After all,_ she argued with herself,_ there's no harm in watching, is there? If I'm careful I can probably sneak out once he goes to bed and he'll never be the wiser_._ But_..._what are those dark stripes on his shoulders?_

He threw the shirt casually upon the bed, braced his feet against the wood, and quickly yanked the undervest up over his head -and Belle almost fell out of the cupboard in shock. Scars. Deep, ugly scars the like of which she'd never seen before tore vividly through Frodo's white flesh, thickly criss-crossing his shoulders and back and even going down into his breeches. Unconsciously she drew in a sharp breath.

At the sound Frodo paused with his arms stretched over his head, the vest twisted around his wrists for a moment, and then he hastily pulled the vest back down. His head turned one way and then the other as if he were looking for something, _no doubt me_, she thought, and then he turned toward the cupboard. Belle shrank back into the shadows again, her mind chanting, _please don't see the door, please don't see the door,_ like a mantra. She tried to muffle her breathing behind one hand as she waited. Outside there was a slight sound that she couldn't identify and then silence. A heartbeat passed, and then another.

With a dull thump something collided with the cupboard door, throwing Belle's already dim world into blackness. A scraping noise followed immediately and she heard the doorknob jiggle, and then the sound of someone quietly panting. Belle lunged for the door, grabbing at the knob that Elbin had installed "just in case someone ever got shut in." It turned and she pushed against the door desperately, but it refused to move.

"Frodo?" she called. There was no point in hiding now, she was definitely caught. "Frodo Baggins! You let me out of here this instant!"

"Miss Bracegirdle," came the muffled reply, "I might have known. Forgive me if I inconvenience you for a moment." The sharp tone did not escape Belle's notice.

"Let me out," she snapped.

There was no answer.

"Frodo?" Belle pressed her ear against the door listening intently for any sound.

"Forgive the observation," came Frodo's sharp voice, "but you don't take very well to imprisonment, do you?"

"Let me out!" she retorted. "Largo will kill you for this."

"Will he indeed?" the tone became dry. "I advise him to go into hiding soon after."

"Frodo!"

"Please be patient, _madam_," he returned. "I shall let you out momentarily."

"But...it's dark," she begged, shamelessly playing on his own fear.

There was an odd silence for a few moments and then Frodo's muffled voice returned quietly, "Not as dark as it could be."

"Please?"

Silence.

Feeling defeated, Belle slumped back against the closet shelves. In truth, she didn't fear the dark; she had only hoped to find some sympathy with her ploy. Now that it was used up she needed to think.

-fjfjfjfjf-

Frodo Baggins set his jaw firmly and drew in a deep breath through his nose as he hastily buttoned his shirt. He had to calm down. He didn't dare open that door until he was calmer. "_It's dark_," she said. It's dark?! The very words grated him. _What could you possibly know of the dark, Miss Bracegirdle? What do _you_ know of the true dark? Of a world so dark that it seems there was never anything but black? Of the cloying death seeping into your bones and into your breath? Of the blackness stealing over your mind and blinding your-_

No. He had to stop. He was going to drive himself mad remembering. He had to calm down.

His right hand curled tightly around Queen Arwen's jewel until his knuckles turned white. _Why?_ he begged silently. _Why this? Why now?_ He drew another slow, deep breath and began putting on his waistcoat.

_A_._ Aragorn, Anduin, Andúril reforged anew_.

_B_._ Bilbo_. He smiled at the memory._ Bilbo, Boromir_, Boromir had been a good companion on the quest. For the most part... Frodo shook himself and continued his little cool-down exercise. _Bombadil_.

_C_._ Celeborn, Cel_..._ebdil, Cirith Ung_- He growled aloud at that one. _No, not that_. _There was absolutely nothing good about that_. He cast his mind frantically about for another 'C', before the memories became any clearer.

"Frodo?" Belle's muffled voice begged, recalling his attention to the problem at hand.

"Another moment if you please, Miss Bracegirdle," he returned. He couldn't, and wouldn't, explain it to her, but he couldn't leave it at two 'C's. He'd be trying to solve the problem in his head and wouldn't attend to business. Rapidly he scoured his memory for another answer. Names, places, and titles from the quest tumbled through his head. Unfortunately, the only other thing that he could think of at this point was 'Caradhras', also entirely unfitting.

With a frown he looked down at himself, taking mental stock of his appearance. _Shirt tucked and buttoned, breeches dusted off, waistcoat_..._present_. It wasn't brushed or pressed, but it was properly buttoned. _It will do for this, at least_. _Foothair_..._ not the best, but decent, coat on, cuffs properly turned_..._Cotton, of course!_ Frodo almost smacked himself in the head. Sam had married Rosie _Cotton_! What could be a better 'C' than that?

With a smirk at his foolishness for not remembering 'Cotton' sooner he turned to the problem in the closet and removed the chair which he had wedged beneath the doorknob. How foolish of him to think that his intruder had been anyone dangerous. How, well, _vain_, of him. _One would think that you believe that the world of evil revolves around you_, he scolded himself. 'Danger' wouldn't have gasped at the sight of his back; it would have grinned. _A curious hobbit, on the other hand, would react just as Belle did; be sensible if only for a minute, Frodo Baggins_, he mentally scolded himself. He frowned. How was he to protect the Shire from learning the horrors of evil if they were going to do this to him? _There _are _reasons behind the things that I do, Miss Bracegirdle_.

With that thought in mind he drew himself up and, with a firm set of his chin, resolutely opened the closet door.

The maiden blinked and shielded her eyes from the sudden light as the door swung open, trying to peer at the backlit figure framed in the doorway. "Frodo?" she queried, a hesitant vulnerability in her tone.

He couldn't answer her for a minute, but just stood there looking. He remembered that vulnerability, that uncertainty of 'what will happen to me?' He'd unfortunately had his questions answered. On occasion his back still throbbed with the answers. When he spoke his voice was softened.

"Come out once your eyes are accustomed to the light." A kindness they hadn't afforded him.

Belle squinted up at him, cocking her head to one side, but Frodo stepped out of sight before she could ask anything. He could feel his resolve crumbling slightly. _Why did she have to look at me like that?_ He sighed and gathered himself up again as she came out.

-fjfjfjfjf-

Belle took one look at the firm-set jaw and steely blue eyes and had no doubts that she was now in the presence of The Baggins. There was a stern disappointment on his face that almost hurt to look at. "Frodo," she began hesitantly.

The Baggins held up one hand as if to check her words and she fell silent. He looked at her for a time, and then said quietly, "What are you doing in my room, Miss Bracegirdle?"

Belle nervously licked her lips. "Forgive me," she corrected, "but really, it isn't your room. It is a spare guest room attached to the _linen cupboard_, which I needed to get into." She stressed the words 'linen cupboard' slightly.

Frodo nodded sternly. "I see, but you have given me permission to make this my room for several days. Therefore, I expect you to afford me some privacy. Have you often entered this room while I have stayed here?"

The words were delivered with an icy precision that stung in contrast to his earlier warmth and Belle felt her temper coming to lend her some assistance. "Certainly not!" she snapped back haughtily. "I _merely_ needed to get some linens for the trip tomorrow. Until this night I have never entered 'your' room."

Frodo drew himself up more sternly at her tone. Belle couldn't have known it, but through his head had shot the name, 'Lobelia'. "Very well," he returned. "Why then were you hiding in the cupboard?"

Belle glared back at him, nostrils flared. "I knew that you would overreact if you found me in here," she answered frostily.

"Did you?" he returned.

"I most certainly did," she snapped. "I've done nothing. I came to gather bedding for tomorrow and had to straighten the cupboard because _someone _left it a perfect mess the last time it was opened. You can see my pile there." She gestured to the small stack of linens to her right. "I wasn't expecting you and I panicked because I knew that _this_ is what you would think if you found me in here. _That_, Mr _Baggins_, is why I was hiding in a linen cupboard." She glared defiantly up at him.

He gazed at her for a few moments as if he were weighing her words, and then the set of his jaw softened, although his eyes remained wary. "Forgive me, Miss Bracegirdle," he said quietly. "I have always been a very private person, and I fear that upon catching you in here I assumed the worst. I apologise for wrongly accusing you."

The apology set Belle back on her heels for a moment. Did he mean it? She stared at him suspiciously for a few moments. The Baggins stared back, his eyes guarded. There were secrets hiding there. Definite secrets that he wouldn't willingly disclose. Well, perhaps she could coax him into sharing a little more. She allowed her own eyes to soften and murmured, "I accept your apology, and I must apologise for my temper as well."

He gave her a queer half-smile that didn't reach into his eyes and nodded. "And I accept yours as well," he murmured. She smiled and nodded her thanks, but the Baggins had turned away toward the linens and didn't see it.

As he bent to pick them up for her she asked gently, "What happened to your back?"

The Baggins froze for a moment, and then said in a quiet voice, "Please pardon my rudeness, but I don't believe that's any of your concern."

"None of my concern?" Belle stared at him, aghast. "Frodo, I _know_ what those marks are. I have four brothers who routinely earned themselves a thrashing from the farmers for scrumping, but none of them still have the marks. Who beat you?

"That's none of your affair," Frodo repeated, rising to his feet and drawing himself up stiffly. "and I ask that you keep what you've seen to yourself. I'd prefer it if the entire Shire was _not_ discussing me."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Belle reassured him. "They won't hear a word from me, not even Largo." _Although I _am_ going to _kill _him for this_, she added mentally.

If anything the Baggins appeared more uncomfortable than ever by her words. He eyed her warily.

Belle gave him an abashed smile and dropped her casual demeanour. "I mean it, Frodo," she said firmly. "I promise I'll never tell anyone. I swear." What possessed to add the last two words she couldn't guess, but she meant all of it.

Frodo gave her a long, searching look, and then finally nodded, as if satisfied. "Thank you," he murmured.

He turned toward the laundry again and Belle waited until he was kneeling on the floor this time. As he reached for the pile she gently began running her fingers soothingly through his hair. He grew very still and tense.

"Frodo," she whispered, "please tell me. What happened?"

"It isn't any of your business, Miss Bracegirdle," he returned firmly, but beneath her fingers she could feel him trembling. _Interesting. He can hide his feelings behinds his voice, but his body will betray him._

"Those marks on your legs," she murmured, still gently teasing his curls. "That wasn't _dirt_ on your legs on Trewsday night, was it?"

"Please leave me," Frodo said.

"Someone beat you," Belle was horrified. "They tried to beat you to death, didn't they?

A tremor shuddered through the hobbit and he pulled his head away from her touch. "You are mistaken, Miss Bracegirdle," he said calmly, scooping up the laundry as he did so. "No-one attempted to beat me to death. I am fine." He rose and handed her the stack of linens. She was surprised at the expressionless look on his face as he continued, "Would you please leave? I must prepare for the trip tomorrow."

Oh _ho_, so _that_ was his game, was it? She planted her feet adamantly even as she accepted the load. "Frodo Baggins, my cousin Rose was beaten by the Ruffians when they took her husband, but even they weren't this ruthless. I would know. I tended the wounds myself. Did someone take care of you? They weren't poisoned, were they?"

Frodo sighed. "Yes, Miss Bracegirdle, they were tended by the finest healers in the land. Now, would you please leave?"

"Were they poisoned?" Belle demanded.

"No." He walked to the bedroom door and held it open for her.

She stared at him from her position by the closet, something in the back of her head screaming that everything was wrong, but she couldn't explain why. Frodo stared back. In the silence that stretched between them Belle thought that she heard a barely audible "Farmer...Fang horn...F...F..." She tucked it it in the back of her mind and moved toward the door.

As she exited she bade Frodo goodnight. He swept her a polite bow and returned, "I bid you a most pleasant and restful sleep as well, Miss Bracegirdle, with no foul dreams to trouble you."

He closed the door firmly upon her retreating figure even as she turned back to correct her name, and through the door she heard him say -though certainly not to her, "I thank you, my Lady. I-I- Four Long, of course! Blast this..." the voice died into mutters.

Belle shook her head, wondering what had just happened. Then she remembered her forgotten wrath at Largo's betrayal and marched to the study, intent on getting an explanation for her brother's conduct.

-0-0-0-

A/N: Perhaps I should explain what Frodo was doing with A, B, C, etc. One of (my) Frodo's tricks that he uses to try avoiding or escaping the unpleasant memories from the quest is to remember the _good_ things that happened and the _good_ people that he met. Because hobbits enjoy word games he makes it a game. For each letter of the alphabet you have to remember three good things, events, or people from the quest. They must remembered in alphabetical order and may not be repeated. For example, this is why he didn't use Arwen as part of his three good 'A's; he was saving her for 'U' (Undómiel), lest he end up with Ungol, Ufthag, and Ungoliant's get. It's a bit of a silly trick, but it does help at times.

A/N2: Frodo is not and was not falling for Belle at any point thus far. Belle is merely reading what she wants to see into the relationship. As always.


	12. 11 The Morning After the Night Before

**11. The Morning After the Night Before**

27 Thrimidge, 1420 S.R.

It was late before Frodo emerged from his little room the next morning. In fact, Belle, Largo, and young Elmas Turnbarrel, a tween who worked for the Bracegirdles as a hobbit-of-all-work and was to drive the carriage, were half-way through second-breakfast before Frodo finally entered the kitchen, his pale face full of apology.

"Well, good morning, sleepyhead," Belle teased cheerfully.

The two male hobbits looked up immediately, Largo with a scowl and Elmas with a grin.

"Hullo, Mr Baggins," the lad called brightly, raising a mug of milk in salute.

"It's about time," Largo muttered, casting a dark look first at Frodo, and then Elmas, who flushed and hastily took a gulp of milk to cover his embarrassment.

Frodo bowed his head humbly. "I do apologise," he murmured. "Forgive me for keeping us so late."

"Oh, don't apologise to me," Largo snapped. "It's your darling '_Sam_' you've got to talk to." Frodo flinched and Belle stifled a groan. One of the things that had been discussed during supper last night was the fact that Frodo wished to be home within three days if possible. When Largo asked why Frodo had unthinkingly made the worst blunder possible and said that he didn't want to worry 'Sam' by being gone any longer than necessary. Largo had icily queried whether it was Frodo or Sam who was Master of Bag End. Frodo had responded in defence of the servant, and, well, the whole matter had gone downhill from there, both parties making some rather outlandish claims to defend their stands. Thinking back on the exchange now Belle realised that was when Largo's entire attitude had changed toward Frodo.

She pulled out a chair beside her, saying, "Come sit down and have some breakfast, dear. We've bacon and sausage, mushrooms, fried eggs, toast, and even some nice fried potatoes, and we still have some of the rolls and porridge and such from first breakfast if you'd prefer."

"We're a-feastin' like kings t'day, Mr Baggins! Beggin' your pardon, sir," Elmas added enthusiastically. Frodo gave the lad a small smile.

"So I see," he murmured, before turning his back to the party and facing west as he did before every meal. The siblings exchanged an exasperated look and Elmas' eyes grew wide before he hastily ducked his head and began eating in a subdued manner.

After a few moments Frodo turned back to the others and eased himself into the chair that Belle had drawn, surveying the table. There was still plenty of everything left.

"Is there anything particular that you'd like?" Belle asked, handing him a plate.

He quirked the barest hint of a smile at her. "Mushrooms."

She laughed and began passing all of the bowls and platters of food around the little table and everyone quietly served themselves a helping or two, although Belle did notice that Frodo skipped the sausage and the potatoes. Then the table seemed to fall into a wary silence which began grating on Belle's nerves within minutes. It was as if everyone was trying to avoid an impending storm. After a few minutes Belle had had enough, but surprisingly it was _Elmas_ who spoke first.

"I'm right sorry, Mr Baggins," he burst out.

Everyone looked up at him in surprise and he turned bright red and glanced back down at his plate. Frodo (after a moment's hesitation) lowered his forkful of eggs to his own plate.

"For what?" he asked bemusedly.

"F'r 'ffendin' y'like," the lad muttered at his plate.

Belle's head snapped back to look at Frodo, who blinked at the accusation. "For what?"

The lad lifted his head now, and his brown eyes looked slightly wet, but he wasn't crying. "For offendin' y' like," he repeated. "I'm right sorry, sir, I didn' mean to."

Frodo gazed at him, looking puzzled. The expression was so comical and adorable at once that if the situation hadn't been so solemn Belle would have laughed.

"You - didn't offend me, lad," he said hesitantly. "What made you think that?"

"When y' firs' come in, like, I said as we was feastin' like kings, an' y'turned your back. So I thought as y' migh' - be mad at me." The last words were whispered, as if he didn't want anyone to hear them. "An' if'n y'_druther_ be upset then y' can," Elmas rushed hurriedly on. "I jus' want'ed t' say I were sorry."

They all stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment.

Then Frodo suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, stars! No, lad, I'm not mad at you at all," he continued in a gentler tone. "I was observing a tradition in the kingdom of Gondor, far to the east and south of us. They call it the Standing Silence. Before every meal they will turn to the west and remember Númenor, their first home, and Valinor, or Elvenhome, and the Valar who dwell there. My companions and I all picked up the habit while we were there."

Elmas looked at him warily. "Y' did?"

Frodo gave him a reassuring smile. "Yes. I apologise for frightening you."

Elmas flushed again. "No need t' 'pologise t' me, sir. I was th' noodle what thought y' was offended.

Frodo smiled and shook his head. "Nonsense. I'd say that you're anything _but_ a noodle, _or_ a ninnyhammer if you know that one. Now, surely you're hungrier than that," he added, gesturing at Elmas' plate-full of half portions (_which looks a lot like Frodo's own, _Belle thought). "Eat, lad, and don't mind us old gaffers. A growing tween needs far more food than us." He gave the lad a wink and Elmas grinned back and served himself a few more pieces of bacon.

"Speak for yourself," Largo scowled. "I'm only fifty-four and still in my prime, thank you."

"I beg your pardon." Frodo smirked, giving the barrister a bob of a bow.

"As if," Largo grunted.

"Lads," Belle scolded. They both looked at her innocently and she gave Frodo a stern look. "I know one 'old gaffer' who needs to put a lot more into his mouth and stomach than he has yet."

Frodo gave her a mock-bow just as he had Largo. "As you wish."

"Really?" Belle returned exasperatedly. In answer Frodo popped a mushroom into his mouth.

The meal continued in silence for a few minutes, and Frodo was actually able to finish half of his helping before Largo demanded, "So tell me, why does a hobbit of the _Shire _feel the need to follow a custom held by _Men_?" His tone held a challenge, but for once it wasn't backed by open hostility.

Frodo, who had just taken a bite of toast, held up one finger to signify, 'wait.' After he finished chewing and swallowing he took a sip of tea and then answered, "For several reasons actually. The first one that comes to mind is that it is habit, for we have done it for several months now, and speaking for myself I tend to feel as if I have forgotten something if I don't do it. However, that would be the least of my reasons now. Another could be that we are showing that we respect the men of Gondor, in particular the king, and to show that we follow their traditions. Certainly this is why we first joined them in the Standing Silence, but for me the meaning goes beyond that, and I think for the others as well, for I have seen Merry and Pippin observing it privately, and Sam was the one who taught it to Rosie." He paused and took a slow sip of tea.

"I cannot speak for the others, mind you," he continued, placing his cup back on the table, "but for myself I am acknowledging the Valar and their interventions in my life. Many times I would be lost without them." Belle noticed that his right hand moved to his white jewel as he spoke and he began to stroke it absently, the fingers curled inward so that no-one would notice that he was maimed. "It is a sign of respect, too, and honour. They are, after all, the Powers, among the ones who sang the world into being. The Valar are the ones who left the presence of Ilúvatar, with his blessing, to watch-care over all of Middle-Earth, to shape it, and to help it not only to grow, but to thrive. There are fourteen Valar, and each one takes special care of different parts of Arda. Aulë cares for craftsmen and those who love to make things; Ulmo is Master of the Sea; Oromë is a lover of the hunt and all things related to that. Often I have thought that if the hobbits have a patron among the Valar it would be either Yavanna, who loves all growing things more than any hobbit ever could, or else Nessa, who delights in dancing and merriment, and no-one who has seen the outside world can deny that hobbits are merry folk."

His voice grew softer and his eyes seemed to see something far away, as if he were remembering something. "Even now they intercede in behalf of Middle-Earth: through the Eagles, a rainstorm bringing water to a thirsty traveller, a star seen high above the reek of clouds rekindling hope in a failing spirit," He grew silent and Belle waited breathlessly. He was talking. _Actually talking!_ Even if it was rather strange-sounding it was still something, and she was going to twist the ears off anyone who broke this magic now.

After a few moments Frodo shook himself and turned to Largo, who had waited as silently as Belle. "Forgive me," he said. "You asked why a hobbit would follow a custom of men. My question would be: why don't all hobbits follow such a custom? The other free peoples of Middle-Earth have their own ways of honouring the Valar. The Dwarves may not honour many of the Valar, but they revere Aulë, whom they call Mahal. The Elves remember them in their songs, stories, and feasts. The Men of Númenor have their Standing Silence, as well as other customs and feasts. Why alone of all the free peoples should the hobbits forget the Powers, and the One who created them? For we also are Children of Ilúvatar, along with the Elves, Men, and Dwarves, and the Onodrim. Why do we, of all the peoples, who have such a head for our own genealogies, forget our first Father? For in honouring the Valar we also bring honour back to The One, to Eru Ilúvatar.

"Perhaps the Standing Silence isn't strictly the best way for a hobbit to acknowledge them. As you said, it _is_ a custom of Men. For my part I would be glad to see the hobbits invent their own ways of honouring the Valar. Something definitely hobbity, with the proper amount of respect due, but until that day comes I shall observe the Standing Silence -and more than that, as a friend and a subject of the king of both Gondor and Arnor and as a companion of a Fellowship that went there _and_ back again only by the grace of Eru Ilúvatar and the Valar I shall continue to observe the Standing Silence until the day that I leave Middle-Earth."

He gave Largo a look as if to say, 'that should explain everything' and then took a long drink of milk, closing his eyes as he did so as if talking so much had exhausted him.

The siblings were silent for a moment or two, looking bewilderedly from Frodo to their plates to each other and then back to Frodo. Finally Largo said, "You seem to have thought this out quite thoroughly."

Frodo, who had put down his mug, gave him a small, possibly forced, smile. "Well, I do have to answer that question almost every time that someone sees me doing it."

Belle frowned. "Why didn't you ever tell us this before?"

"You never asked," Frodo returned mildly.

The siblings exchanged a pointed look.

"We've been wondering about this standing thing of yours all week and you're saying that all that we ever needed to do was ask?" Belle was incredulous.

"In this instance, yes," Frodo answered.

"And if we asked you another question?" she countered.

"That would depend on the nature of the question."

Belle wanted to scream. "Frodo, to me asking about that would be the same as asking you about your nightmare."

His cheeks grew pink. "Which you did inquire about, as I recall, but I do thank you for respecting my privacy." The wry tone tone told Belle he was thinking something very different. She grimaced inwardly.

Largo folded his fingers together beneath his chin and leaned on them, elbows on the table, studying the Baggins. "So, it all depends on the nature of the question?" Frodo seemed to pick up on the calculating tone right away for he shot a suspicious look at Largo, who tipped his head innocently to one side. "What happened at the Burning Glade?"

The Master of Bag End grew very still, his face draining of colour and his gaze locked on Largo. The two sat this way staring at each other for a few minutes. Then slowly Frodo leaned against the table himself, imitating Largo's position except that he caught his jewel between his cupped hands and hid his mouth behind the interlocked fingers.

"Why?" he murmured stiffly through his fingers. "You saw what happened. I was sick."

Largo quirked a knowing eyebrow at him. "Yes, but _why_ were you sick?"

Frodo's whole posture looked so vulnerable sitting the way that he was. He was silent for a minute, and then said firmly, "I suppose that question falls under the realm of things which I cannot answer."

"I see," the barrister murmured. He gave Frodo a hard look. "So, how are we to tell the difference between private questions and ones that you will answer? _I_ would have thought that the standing question would be far more personal than the Burning Glade."

"Would you?" The question was very frosty and Largo grew quiet.

Deliberately Frodo turned - not to Belle, but to Elmas, who was chewing on the last piece of sausage.

"Tell me, Elmas, have you ever been to Hobbiton or Michel Delving?"

The tween shook his head as he struggled to swallow his mouthful. When he finally got it down he squeaked, "Nossir, but I c'n get y' there right th' same. I've seen lotsa maps, an' I've driven halfway there afore. M' brother Dan works in an inn at the hafway, an' I go there all th' time. I c'n get y' t' both Michel Delvin' an' Hobbitin right enou'."

Frodo smiled. _How does a tweenaged lad elicit so many smiles from him?_ Belle wondered enviously.

"Well, that's very well, lad, but I was wondering if you have ever tasted Mistress Bunce's gingerbread pigs."

The tween gave him a puzzled look. "No, sir," he answered hesitantly.

Frodo raised his eyebrows, as if wondering how someone could have lived so long without tasting such a delicacy. "Then one of the things that you must do while you're in Michel Delving is go to Mistress Bunce's Pastry Shop and buy yourself a gingerbread pig. They're quite the best ones that I ever tasted, and only a copper apiece."

"Really?" The lad's eyes were huge, and quite hungry.

"Really," Frodo grinned. He turned to Belle. "And as for you, Mistress Bracegirdle—"

"_Mistress Bracegirdle_?" Belle squeaked out, almost offended.

He smirked at her. "Miss Belle," he amended cheerfully.

Realising that it was nothing more than one of the Baggins' games she smiled back. "No, I can't say that I've ever had a gingerbread pig made by Mistress Bunce."

"Well, then you must try one as well," Frodo said decidedly, "but truthfully, I was going to recommend her tarts for you. She has several different flavours, including a bilberry one I think you'd like, and a strawberry one which Mr Bracegirdle may well approve of," he added in a voice intended to carry to Largo's ears.

Largo glanced vaguely in Frodo's direction, and then looked away.

"Are there any other places in Michel Delving that you would recommend?" Belle asked.

Frodo gave her a rueful smile. "Well, I don't know much about where a lady would care to visit. I tend to keep my business between Mistress Bunce's, the market, and the Goodbody mercantile, with a side trip or two to the Silver Pig. I know that there's a cloth shop by the mercantile which may interest you. Other than that—"

"Well, what about you?" Belle interrupted. "Surely there are other places that you at least visit, even if you don't buy anything."

Frodo shook his head. "Not really. There's an old bookseller who owns what's probably the only bookshop in the Shire, but other than that I generally keep busy."

"You'd be amazed at how much work it is to officiate over banquets, Belle," Largo put in dryly.

Frodo's jaw tightened a notch. "Yes, sorting papers takes even more time," he returned in the same dry tone. He took a sip of tea and grimaced.

Concerned, Belle gave him a look. He smiled thinly in return.

"Cold," he said by way of explanation and took a longer drink this time.

"Comes of making impassioned speeches," Largo muttered. He downed the rest of his tea as well and stood up. "Well, whenever you're ready, _Mr_ Baggins," he announced. "Where are your things?"

"By the front door," Frodo answered. "I'll be ready as soon as I'm finished."

Largo nodded and strode from the room, throwing a "Hurry up, then," over his shoulder as he left. Elmas followed immediately, stuffing the last of the bacon and toast into his pockets as he went.

Belle shook her head as she watched them go. "Lads," she muttered to Frodo, who just shook his head.

"He's still young," he said, looking at his eggs with distaste. "I believe that I am finished as well, Miss Belle," he added, rising to his feet. "I'm afraid that I talked so long that these are quite cold."

Belle glanced at his plate and then nodded. "I can't say that I blame you," she sympathised. "Just leave your plate there; I'll take care of it."

"Thank you—" Frodo began

"BAGGINS!"

Largo's bellow echoed through the smial announcing his presence long before he entered the kitchen and Frodo grimaced. Belle _thought_ that she heard him mutter, "and so it begins," just before Largo entered.

"Would you mind helping us hitch your pony to the back of the carriage?" Largo growled. "He won't budge."

"No," Frodo returned quietly, "he wouldn't." He sighed and stood up. "Of course I'll come. Lead the way."

"Why wouldn't he?" Belle wondered.

The two hobbits glanced at her. "He's trained not to allow anyone he doesn't know to take him away," Frodo answered.

Belle smirked. "Well, that could be helpful," she teased. "Then you know that Largo won't try to make off with him."

Largo scowled. "Stubborn thing. As if I'd _want_ it," he growled.

Frodo gave her a smile, but Belle thought that it looked sad. "I will admit, it's a helpful trait under the right circumstances."

"And now is certainly not one of them," Largo growled. "Can we please go?"

"Lead the way," Frodo said again. Muttering imprecations under his breath Largo led the his guest out of the kitchen.

Once he was gone Belle shook her head at the plate of half-eaten eggs and rejected bacon. What sort of hobbit skipped first breakfast and then only ate mushrooms, toast and porridge for second breakfast?


	13. 12 A Long Ride?

**12. A Long Ride?**

The moment that Belle set foot out the front door she knew that it was going to be an interesting trip. Elmas perched on the roof of the carriage trying to tie up the last of the baggage while Largo bellowed orders and tossed more rope at him and Frodo held the heads of both ponies. Apple, the carriage pony, was already hitched up and appeared to be quite calm, but Strider, a lovely sleek pony with a shining grey coat and a spirited look in his eye, was dancing about impatiently. Frodo appeared to be murmuring reassurances to them both, but especially to the grey. As she approached the carriage she heard him say firmly, "Steady, lad." He threw a glance up at the roof and called to Elmas, "Are you all right up there?"

"I'm fine, sir," Elmas called back sturdily, looping the rope around a piece of luggage. "This is th' las' bit here."

"All right," Frodo returned. Strider whickered impatiently, which set the other pony whickering back, and Frodo winced at the noise.

"Hey, Strider, hey," he shushed soothingly. "We'll be on our way soon."

"Need a hand?" Belle chuckled.

Frodo looked at her and breathed a sigh of relief. "Yes, please. If you could just hold Apple." He handed the dun off to her and put a firm hand to his own pony's neck. "Hey, lad," he crooned. "We'll be off in a minute, and then you'll be trotting all day. Don't fret now, my lad." The pony whuffled impatiently and Frodo smiled. "Sedho, mellon nín," he lapsed into the Elvish tongue, murmuring gently and stroking the pony. To Belle's surprise Strider began to calm down at the strange words.

"Does he understand you?" she wondered.

"I don't think so." Frodo's voice rose and fell with the same calming cadence that he was using on his pony. He continued to face the grey. "I know very little of the Rohirric language though, and will often speak to him in Sindarin instead. I think that he just responds to the tone of my voice. After all, we've travelled a long way together. Haven't we, lad?" The pony whickered in response and nuzzled his master's dark hair.

"He really is a beautiful creature," Belle observed, trying to quash the odd sense of jealousy at the bond between hobbit and _pony_, for goodness sake. "Where did you ever get him?"

"Rohan," he answered, "It's a lovely country of rolling plains and grassland far to the east and south of the mountains, and they cherish their horses -and ponies- as family."

Belle's eyebrows rose at that odd notion. Did Frodo approve of the idea as well? He certainly seemed to regard other aspects of Men's culture highly enough. "What where you doing there?" she wondered.

"Coming home," Frodo smiled. "Our path led through there."

Belle appraised the pony mentally, being one who had a good eye for ponyflesh. The creature must have cost a fortune. "He seems rather impatient to leave," she noted.

"He would be," Frodo smirked, reaching up to scratch the pony's forehead. "He never enjoys the waiting. In fact, there's nothing that he likes better than a good run. Is there, my lad?"

This last was directed at Strider, who leaned hard into Frodo's hand, appearing to enjoy the rub. "Today will be rather hard for you, won't it," Frodo sympathised, rubbing harder, "trotting behind a carriage all day?"

Belle smiled at the pair. "How fast is he?"

He glanced at her, a mischievous look in his eyes. "You'd be surprised," he answered mildly.

"Oh?" Belle challenged. "Perhaps you could show me his paces sometime."

"Perhaps," Frodo said with a shrug, but his eyes were still gleaming.

"I think that's the last of it," Largo announced, bustling over importantly as if _he_ had been the one on the carriage roof. "If you'll just hitch up your pony we'll be on our way." Both grey and dun snorted at him.

"There now," Frodo crooned, gently patting Strider's nose. "Didn't I tell you? Come on then," and saying this he led Strider around to the back of the carriage.

Largo grinned at his little sister. "Your carriage awaits, my lady," he said with a sweeping bow.

Now that the time was upon them Belle suddenly felt hesitant. There was still so much that they didn't know or understand, like Rohan. He'd been with them a week and had never once spoken of Rohan. Or where he was journeying back from, for that matter. In fact, he'd barely spoken of himself at all, it seemed. "Largo," she murmured in an undertone, "do you really think that this will work?"

He straightened from his bow, shrugging. "All we can do is try," he murmured back. "It's too late to back out now. Isn't it?" He eyed her as if offering a way out, but Belle was having none of it.

"Absolutely," she said firmly and swept past him into the carriage. She had just finished settling in when Frodo climbed in and lay a large leather satchel on the seat opposite her.

"Left it again," he muttered and began rolling up the stiff canvas covering which hung over the window. Light and a gentle breeze both streamed through the hole at once, freshening the air in the carriage. Belle gave the satchel a disgruntled frown, having intended to take the seat beside Frodo if possible.

"I thought that you had your luggage on top," she commented, trying to sound careless.

He glanced at her before continuing his self-appointed task of tying up the shade. "I do," he answered. "This is just my—"

"His book!" Largo announced as he climbed into the carriage. "His absurd, irrational piece of drivel which has cluttered up either his seat or saddle for the past week!" Belle rolled her eyes at her brother's comments. The slightest mention of "the book" goaded Largo into unspeakable rudeness, it seemed. He now sat down in a huff beside her and banged on the roof three times, signalling Elmas to start.

Frodo, who had barely finished with the window, hastily took his seat as well, muttering, "Quite so," under his breath as the carriage lurched forward and then began moving steadily down the road toward Michel Delving.

Once they were moving Belle gave Frodo a curious look and said, "Your book?"

Frodo nodded. "Yes, Miss Belle. I am writing a book."

She cocked her head at him in interest. "What's it about?"

"It's an account of my journey last year," he answered. "My cousin tasked me with writing it down for him.

Belle smiled."So it's about your adventures?" she clarified.

A closed look came over his face. "Yes," he murmured, glancing out the window. "Mine and a few others."

With an encouraging smile at him she drew out her piece-bag, murmuring, "It sounds fascinating."

He ignored her, or perhaps he didn't hear as he watched the world pass by outside, one hand stroking the gleaming white jewel around his neck and the other absent-mindedly fingering the brass clasps of his satchel, a small furrow in his brow. With a small sigh to show her discontent she withdrew some patches from the piece-bag and began to work out a pattern and colour scheme for her next quilting project.

The three rode in silence this way for some time, Largo reading over some legal nonsense or other, Belle designing, and Frodo silently gazing out of the window. Belle would glance up at Frodo from time to time to see how he was getting on, but he never seemed to take any notice of her. Slowly though, as first the minutes and then the miles passed by the crease between his eyebrows began to smooth itself out, and a gentle, somewhat wistful smile started playing at the corners of his mouth. Gradually Belle became aware that he was humming and murmuring something under his breath. It sounded almost like the Springle-ring, but it was far more gentle than usual. Belle's sharp ears managed to catch the words, "Sturdy and steady they stand." Largo gave an over-dramatic moan of pain and curled himself tightly into his corner, burying his face in his papers. Belle grinned. It served him right, after all the grief that he'd given Frodo that week.

Frodo's voice rose just a little and he sang softly:

"Sit by the firelight's glow  
Tell us an old tale we know  
Tell of adventure strange and rare  
Never to change  
Ever to share  
Stories we tell will cast their spell  
Now and for always"

Belle smiled at the change. "What are you singing, Frodo?"

"Just a little song that Sam made up," he answered quietly, turning to face her for the first time since she'd inquired about his adventures.

Belle's smile froze. _Sam_._ Why does everything always go back to that 'Sam'?_

"It sounded like the Springle-ring to me," Largo muttered.

"It should," Frodo agreed. "He put a few fitting words to the tune."

Belle's eyebrows rose in surprise. "_Sam _writes songs?"

Frodo smiled warmly. "Of the very best kind," he answered. "No overly fancy words or phrases. Just simple truths put to melody."

"Probably all he knows." Largo's mutter was nearly inaudible even to Belle, but Frodo drew himself up sharply, his eyes suddenly glinting dangerously.

"Indeed," the hobbit snapped. "Tell me what _you_ know of it.

Belle looked at him, startled, and Largo appeared taken aback as well.

"What?" he wondered.

Frodo's tone was icy. "You don't even know Sam. What right do you have to judge him like that?"

Largo was certainly agitated. Belle could tell that from the way his eyes kept darting about.

"I only meant that he didn't have much schooling, I'm sure," he blustered.

Frodo's eyebrows rose. "Oh?" he murmured, his tone dangerously quiet. He gave poor Largo a hard look and her brother shifted uneasily. Frodo continued in a louder tone, "If you ask me he had the finest teacher in the Shire. The same as mine. _Bilbo Baggins_." He enunciated the name very carefully and then watched coldly as the siblings tried to absorb this new information.

"Really?" Largo asked after a long pause.

"Yes." The word was clipped, and Belle winced. The Baggins was definitely angry.

Largo grimaced. Bilbo might not have been the most shining example of hobbitry, but now was certainly not the time to bring that up. "Well," he admitted, "no one could ever say that Bilbo Baggins didn't know how to use words, so I suppose I take it back." He turned away, and Belle felt relieved that the battle was over. Until she caught sight of Frodo's glare. The intensity of it sent shivers down the hobbitess's spine. _Just like Sterday night_.

It took longer for Largo to acknowledge the stare, and then he snapped, "What?"

"You suppose," Frodo muttered, then in a louder, scathing tone added, "How very generous of you." Largo glared at the Master of Bag End who continued with a sigh, "Mr Bracegirdle, I'm certain that you are aware of the many times that I've spoken to you of Sam and Rose this week."

"It has been several, yes," Largo returned coolly.

Frodo eyed his companion sternly. "Do you remember anything I said?" He paused as if waiting for an answer. When none was forthcoming he added in a hard tone, "Such as regarding insulting them?"

"That wasn't an insult," Largo returned defensively. "I was making an observation, and you weren't supposed to hear it," he added indignantly.

Belle winced at _that_ bit of foolishness. As if Frodo Baggins of the Sharp Ears was going to miss a mutter that she herself plainly heard. Frodo's jaws ground together, and an angry blue flame leapt up in his eyes as he snapped, "You have disparaged and belittled Sam all week, and I've had quite enough of it. Sam is my brother in all but blood, and I will not stand for you speaking so of him any longer. If I hear you say one more thing against him, or Rose, or any of his family, then I will be happy to find you both a room at the Green Dragon, where you can stay as we conduct our business."

The Bracegirdles stared at him in shock. Largo's jaw was slightly agape as he goggled at the Baggins. "You'd do - what?" he finally gasped.

Frodo clenched his jaw tighter. "I will be forced to withdraw my invitation to Bag End."

"Your reputation would be ruined," Largo returned with some amazement. Good manners were not just cherished in the Shire; they bordered on solemn ritual at times. The formal extension of an invitation to visit was one of those instances. Once given, under no circumstance save illness, injury, or death could it be revoked. To do so was considered an irreparable breach of etiquette. A hobbit who did so was often shunned and looked upon with suspicion for years afterwards unless he had a flawless reason for doing so, and even then he would be subject to gossip and speculation for months. The logic was that no hobbit would ever extend an invitation if he didn't mean it.

The Baggins never flinched. "What is the ruin of my reputation, such as it is, compared to the wounds you would inflict upon my brother?" He paused, and his tone became softer. "You know nothing of Sam. He has far more worth than you give him credit for." He turned away from them to look out the window, the jewel on his necklace clenched tightly in his fist. His voice was barely audible as he murmured, "He gave up everything to follow his master in his witless wanderings, even knowing that he may never come back. A family, a home...a bride. My dear, dear Samwise," he whispered, and Belle suddenly realised that he wasn't talking to them at all. "You knew what the cost of following could be, but you still-" he paused as if overcome, and then continued, "and how great that cost has been to you. I've seen it in your eyes, and heard it in your voice at night. Oh, Sam, you could have been happy and free, never knowing of battle or peril or-" He broke off suddenly, leaving Belle to wonder what sort of 'or' could cause such pain in Frodo's eyes. She longed to reach out and lay a comforting hand on his knee-nothing more than that-but it was as if there was an invisible barrier between Frodo and the Bracegirdles, miles wide and tall as a tree. Reluctantly, Belle returned to her pillow design, pondering Frodo's strange words as the carriage ride dragged on.

After several more unending miles the carriage slowly came to a halt and soon Elmas' round face was peering in Largo's window, politely informing them that they'd somehow missed elevenses, and it was now noon and just the right time for an early luncheon, if'n y' don' mind, Mr Bracegirdle, sir.

Frodo chuckled softly at the words and turned toward the others, memory softening his eyes and a quiet half-smile, almost sad, playing about his lips.

"By all means!" Largo exclaimed, hastily gathering his papers together and exiting the carriage. "How is Apple holding up?" Belle heard him ask as the pair walked away.

"Oh, y'know Apple, sir," the tween replied. "She's a lovely mare, but-" they moved out of hearing distance. Across from her Frodo was stretching his shoulders back and drawing a deep breath as if coming out of a long reverie. Come to think of it, he was.

She gave him a casual smile. "Are you hungry?

He came out of his stretch with a smile of his own. "Yes, I believe that I am." He slipped past her and out of the carriage, and then turned and politely offered her a hand down. She accepted.

-jfjfjfjfjfj-

After luncheon, a quiet affair marred only by Elmas' incessant chatter (an unfortunate trait of the Turnbarrel family), the travellers resumed their journey. Belle was still tense as the carriage began jolting away, but Frodo, by contrast, seemed more relaxed than she had seen all day. He had withdrawn a few sheets of paper, a writing stick, and a thin board from the leather satchel which now lay open beside him on the seat, and now he was busy scratching away at the paper and humming a sprightly little tune under his breath as he worked. Every so often words would spill out of him as if he couldn't help but sing. The thought made Belle smile in spite of her anxiety. Was this yet _another_ side to Frodo Baggins? As of yet she couldn't really connect all of the Frodos that she'd seen this week in a comprehensive picture; there were still too many pieces missing. But perhaps he was unconsciously giving her some more clues.

How she longed to ask what he was doing, or what he was singing, but what kind of chance would she be taking if she did so? After all, she had to _get_ to Bag End and see what she was up against before she could try to conquer it, and the only way to do that was to ensure that Largo didn't make any more offensive comments, and Belle was beginning to fear that if 'Sam' came up again Largo wouldn't be able to restrain himself. Silently she withdrew the first two dark green squares for the patchwork pillow and a needle and began to sew them together.

It wasn't too many miles before she gave it up. _A hobbitess can only take so many references to bright blue jackets and yellow boots, cats fiddling, and tall ships and kings before she bursts from curiosity_, she justified herself as she gazed at Frodo across the carriage. He was silent at the moment, his brow furrowed in concentration. Belle smiled at the picture he made.

"Writing or drawing?"

He looked up at her, still frowning. "I beg your pardon?"

"Are you writing or drawing?" she repeated.

He nodded in understanding. "Drawing, of course. I'm afraid that I can't think well enough to write anything at the moment." He gave her a reassuring smile as he said this, and Belle felt herself reciprocating in kind.

"May I ask what?"

He eyed the paper critically. "It's _supposed_ to be a picture of my cousin Merry and a Haradri sailor's monkey. I don't draw very well, though."

Belle frowned. "What's a 'mung-key'?" she wondered.

Frodo graced her with a very small laugh at that. "A _monkey_ is a small animal that lives in the Southern parts of the world. They're little things, barely taller than a faunt, but they can cause more mischief in five minutes than the combined efforts of a Brandybuck and a Took." He frowned thoughtfully. "They have long, thin arms and legs and lithe bodies that can slip right between your fingers if you're trying to catch them, and thin snake-like tails which they will often swing by from _anything_ that happens to be convenient, be it a sailor's arm or the awning of a tent. He was very loyal, though, the one that we met. His master had only to whistle a certain tune and the little creature would come scampering back to sit on his shoulder, chattering and scolding in his own tongue."

Belle frowned. "Is it...another...sort of folk?" she asked hesitantly.

"Stars, no," Frodo chuckled. "Although he did sometime act like a mischievous child. You see, monkeys have paws that are almost like hands on both their front and back legs, so they can grasp things and climb quickly, and this one was always trying to steal orange fruits and nuts from the bins -for we met them at market- or tugging on his master's ear ring and then scampering away and chattering to any who would hear him about how he was being mistreated-"

"A _man_ wore an ear _ring_?" Belle interrupted.

"Yes," Frodo nodded. "We were all quite taken aback ourselves, at first, but apparently it's a common practice in Harad, which is where the sailor is from. We were actually quite surprised at first when we saw him there, for the Haradri fought in the war on...on the other side, but apparently he swore allegiance to Gondor many years ago. In fact, his ship was among those running supplies to us while we were in resting in Ithilien, although we didn't meet him until that day in the market." Frodo smiled at the memory, a sad, faraway sort of smile, Belle thought. "He was so eager to meet us," Frodo continued. "He kept bowing and smiling. It was rather disconcerting to have a great mountain of a man like that bowing to us, of all the peoples of Middle-Earth!"

"Why did he?"

"I expect that at least part of it had something to do with his culture, and the other likely had to do with the fact that we were hobbits and he had never seen one before. Most people actually thought that Pippin was a prince." He gave her a knowing smirk and Belle's eyes bugged.

"Peregrin Took? The Thain's son?" At Frodo's nod of confirmation she shook her head. "What were they thinking?!"

"I suspect that it has something to do with how casually he addressed everyone, whether they were mighty rulers or normal guards. In Gondor rulers are addressed with respect and called by titles, rather than their first names. Our dear Pippin though went on his merry way calling the Steward, Denethor and the Captain of the Rangers, Faramir and our belovéd King Elessar he called Strider!" Frodo actually laughed at this, his teeth showing and joy in his eyes. "So Merry and I concluded that it must have come from that," he finished. He shook his head fondly. "Dear, dear Pippin," he murmured, looking back down at his drawing.

"All right," Belle said, settling herself in. "Tell me about it."

He looked up at her curiously. "About what?"

"Everything!" she declared. "Strider and Farmir and Hairad and the munkey and everything." _There's a joy in your eyes, Frodo Baggins, that I haven't seen there all week, and I would do _anything_ right now to keep it there_. "Please?" she added. "I'd love to know."

He gave her a wry smile. "You don't know what you're letting yourself in for," he warned.

"Try me," Belle grinned.

-o-o-o-

Translations:

_Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar._  
_Na elyë hiruva. Namárië!_

Farewell! Maybe thou shalt find Valimar.  
Maybe even thou shalt find it. Farewell!

_Lasto bith nîn, Strider. Sedho_ = Listen to my voice, Strider. Be still

A/N: The idea of monkey came from Larner, although (as far as I can remember) that events surrounding it are mine.

Frodo's song, Now and for Always is from The Lord of the Rings Musical. If you wish to listen it's on youtube. Great music. :) If at all possible, if you do listen, watch the actual video that goes with this. It's only the second half of the song, but it's still charming.


End file.
